The Kind of Man I Am
by freakazoid-13
Summary: Dr. Harrison Wells wants Barry Allen, and he's going to get him. That's just the kind of man he is. Earth-2 Harrison Wells / Earth-2 Barry Allen, mild AU of a literal Alternate Universe.
1. I Put a Spell On You

**Title:** The Kind Of Man I Am

 **Author:** freakazoid_13

 **Beta'ed by:** TuTywyll

 **Summary:** Dr. Harrison Wells wants Barry Allen, and he's going to get him. That's just the kind of man he is. Earth-2 Harrison Wells / Earth-2 Barry Allen, mild AU of a literal Alternate Universe.

 **Rating:** E for Explicit or M for Mature (depending on who you ask)

 **Warnings:** M/M, means two dudes getting' it on, if you don't like then don't read. Mild violence, dub-con, swearing, graphic sex, mild homophobia, mild preachiness at the very end, use of "old-timey" terms, sexual harassment in the workplace.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Flash in any of its forms and gain no profit from this other than the warming of my heart every time you leave a comment. The views expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect the views of the author.

 **A/N:** It's that time of the year again for a new season of the Flash, and with it comes…. An Earth-2 Barrison that nobody asked for! Am I the only one who's SUPER obsessed with Earth-2 Barry Allen? He's so adorable and bumbling! Anyway, because Earth-2 is a strange mix of the late-40's-early-50's and futuristic, I thought it would be realistic (and interesting) if they still had a 70's/80's-ish view of homosexuality, so there'll be some period appropriate internalized-externalized mild homophobia. I hope that doesn't freak you out. This is my first fic in the DC universe so be kind and leave a comment telling me how great I am. Additionally, I've titled my chapters after classic songs from the 30's-50's, which I thought was appropriate and also I just love those songs lol. If you're interested in them, message me and I can tell you the singer/album. Phewph! That was a long author's note! And now, on with the show!

 **Part 1: I Put a Spell On You**

Dr. Harrison Wells knew what he wanted from Dr. Barry Allen before he'd even been aware that the young scientist had stayed late, yet again, to work on his and Dr. Hewitt's Quark matter destabilization syphon project. He'd known before he paged Dr. Allen's lab to ask him to come up to his office, to "have a word". And he'd known as he sipped from his thimble-full tumbler of Scotch, watching the security feed from the camera just outside his office as Dr. Allen stood on the other side of the door, taking deep breaths and surreptitiously smoothing out his neatly combed hair before finally gathering the nerve to knock on Wells' door.

"Come in," Wells called out, switching off his computer's monitor and rising to stand by the shuttered window, his back to the door as he heard it open and close carefully.

"Dr. - Dr. Wells?" Dr. Allen's voice cracked on the last syllable. The young scientist cleared his throat nervously. "You asked to see me, sir?"

Wells took his time, swallowed the last mouthful of Scotch, set the tumbler down on the window sill. He knew this game well. He'd played it more times than he could count. He could see the moves in his mind, like pieces on a chessboard - and chess had always been his game. He knew the right places for all the right pauses, the heightening of nerves, the furtive glances, the tantalizing touches. He knew how to play this game - and he always won.

"That's right, Dr. Allen," Wells said at last, his voice raspy from the Scotch, low for the hush in the office. Outside his high-rise window the evening lights of Central City flickered and waned, sparkled and shone, casting the dimmed office in horizontal bars of acidic orange. Moving cars, speeding sky-trams, countless lights in countless windows of hundreds of buildings. Life, the heart of the city ever beating. He turned, fixed Dr. Allen with a steely, blue stare over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. The lanky young man fidgeted uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze, shifting from one wing-tipped shoe to the other, straightening and re-straightening his ridiculous tartan bowtie.

"I noticed you've been putting in quite a bit of over-time lately, Dr. Allen," Wells said, making sure to keep his tone satisfactorily cryptic.

Dr. Allen took his own meaning from the innocuous sentence, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I - I know, I'm sorry, I - I've just been so absorbed in my work, before I know it the labs are empty and the lights are turning off." He laughs - giggles rather - nervously. "I promise, I won't let it happen again."

"Oh, but you misunderstand me, Dr. Allen," Wells begins, languidly moving around his desk to stand in front of the bumbling scientist, not unlike a predatory cat circling in on its prey - an apt metaphor, in Well's opinion. "Here at STAR Labs, going that extra mile puts you ahead of your peers, it ensures your success with us. I didn't get to where I am today by working from nine to five." Here Allen smiled, sweetly, coyly, his grey-green eyes shining with undisguised adoration behind his thin, gold-wired glasses. He really was breathtakingly beautiful. Despite his questionable fashion choices, he was tall and lean, his delicate white skin dotted artfully with moles, his pink lips invitingly shaped, his large doe eyes framed by long, dark lashes that brushed his high cheekbones. Wells wanted to run his thumb over those cheekbones and wouldn't be surprised if they were sharp enough to cut.

He could see the boy slowly beginning to swell with pride, just under his lucent skin like a warm glow. Wells could see the pieces moving in his head, the Rook moving into place behind Barry's unwitting Queen. Time to press his advantage. "Don't think your hard work has gone unnoticed, Dr. Allen. On the contrary, we're all very impressed." Wells slid his glasses from his face and folded them as he spoke, aware that his gaze was far more compelling when unobstructed. " _I'm_ very impressed."

Wells could see the moment his words registered. He could see it in the blush that bloomed on the boy's cheeks, spreading across his face, turning white skin red, equal parts embarrassment and unabashed delight. His grin was practically blinding, all white teeth, his exquisite eyes squinted under his glasses. In Wells' mind the Queen fell beautifully.

"That -" Allen started, voice too high. He collected himself and tried again. "Thank you so much, Dr. Wells. That - I have always wanted to hear that - from you, I -" He paused, embarrassment tipping the scale over delight. "I've never told you this but, before I came to work here, for you, I was your _biggest_ fan. Your thesis on String Phenomenology was _revolutionary_ to me. I - I actually had it laminated so I could keep it with me - I just want to - I've always wanted to - emulate your -"

"That's fascinating," Wells cut him off before the eager young man could embarrass himself any further. He could see the nervous energy swirling through the boy's veins like an unmitigated swarm of bees. He was so close, checkmate within reach, the King standing oblivious to his Bishop's eminent attack. He need only move across the board, reach out, and take it. His body emulated his thoughts, bringing him closer to Allen, slow and deliberate. "I won an award for that thesis, you know."

"Oh, I know!" Dr. Allen blurted out, intent on putting his foot in his mouth before the conversation could conclude. "I read about it, in the Physics quarterly? Their exposé was _riveting_ -"

"Would you care to see it?" Wells didn't wait for Allen to answer, the widening of his already enormous eyes was response enough. He gestured over Allen's shoulder, to the back wall of the office. "It's right over there."

Dr. Allen whipped around fast enough to cause his long, slender, infuriatingly bitable neck damage. "It's beautiful," Allen breathed in awe. _Beautiful indeed_ , Wells thought, coming up directly behind the physicist. Not that the award was, because the framed certificate on the wall was actually a gift for his humanitarian work, but Allen wasn't going to be looking at that award very closely.

Wells stood so close behind the boy that he could feel the heat emanating off of him. He lifted sure fingers to Allen's shoulder, ghosting across the corduroy fabric of his jacket, up to the stiffly pressed collar of his shirt, onto the soft skin of his delectable neck. Dr. Allen stiffened fractionally, surprised, and turned under Wells' hand, finding himself face to face, practically nose to nose, with his idol. His lovely pink lips parted while confusion brought his expressive eyebrows together. "Dr. Wells…?"

Wells couldn't help but breathe out a soft laugh. The boy seemed incapable of saying his name without his voice cracking. It was maddeningly endearing. Wells readjusted his hand so it held Allen's throat, thumb on his pulse point, fingers wrapping around towards the nape of his neck, his grip firm but not constricting. It was a show of dominance, to hold someone's life in your hands in such a blatant way. For Allen to acquiesce meant he trusted Wells with his life, meant he was giving it to him willingly, even if he wasn't consciously aware of it. He felt Allen's Adam's apple bob under his palm with a deep swallow, but the young man made no move to extricate himself from the hold. His eyes were wide as a frightened deer; pupils blown, his pulse fluttering under Wells' thumb, but here he was. Not even lifting a finger to stop him. _Check_.

His experiment having been successful, Wells released his grip, moving his hand upwards until his fingers were buried in Allen's surprisingly thick, soft hair and grazed his thumb across his supple bottom lip. Dr. Allen's eyes fluttered shut. _And mate_.

Wells closed the short distance between them and kissed him. It was soft, gentle, unthreatening. Dr. Allen had the temperament of an excitable rabbit: any sudden moves would startle him right out of Wells' hands.

Allen's lips responded slowly, sluggishly, as though he were in a daze. When Wells flicked his tongue against the boy's lips Allen gasped and jerked suddenly, as if to pull away, but Wells wasn't having it. He'd come this far, and clearly the boy was keen, he just needed a little encouragement and a firm hand. Wells exploited the opportunity of Allen's open mouth and pushed his tongue inside, holding the young man in place with a tight grip on his hair. Allen took in a another sharp breath but this one was less from surprise and more from pleasure and Wells knew that now was the time to press his advantage.

He plundered the boy's mouth, exploring every inch of it, running his tongue along the insides of his teeth, pressing it against his still surprise-slacked tongue, while using his body to push his slender frame back until he hit the rear wall next to that inane certificate with a muted thud. Wells kept up his relentless pace, jaw working Allen's, coaxing him into a response. And he did. He made a sound like a mewling kitten, fisted his thin fingers in the fabric of Wells' blazer and _melted_ into him, his tongue rolling with Wells', their teeth crashing against each other as Allen tilted his head one way, then another, angling for ideal access. His body undulated under Wells, back arching off the wall. It was too much, too unexpectedly good. Wells lost his composure and growled, releasing Allen's mouth to kiss and nip across his jaw, to capture his ear in his mouth. Dr. Allen made a startling sound, half breathy moan and half whimper, that shot directly to Wells' groin.

Wells forced Allen's thighs apart with his knee and pushed himself between them. Wells groaned in the young man's ear when his crotch came into abrupt contact with Allen's undisguisable hardness. He sucked on the boy's neck as he rolled his hips into him, delighting in the gasps and whimpers that reverberated in Allen's throat before escaping his mouth and breaking the silence of the office.

Dr. Allen's arms were around Wells' waist; leverage to help him push his hips in time with Wells' languid thrusts. Wells could feel the heat coming off Barry Allen's skin, feverish, intoxicating. He wanted to feel it. He wanted that hot skin against his own. All of it. He needed it. _Now_.

Wells tugged Allen's bowtie until it loosened and ripped it out of his starched collar roughly, kissing at the hollow of the young scientist's throat as he unbuttoned the white shirt. But then Allen made a jerky little motion with his pelvis, the friction against Wells' straining erection enough to drive him insane, and all bets were off. He abandoned the boy's shirt in favor of unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his trousers -

"St-stop," Barry Allen croaked out, and at first Wells' lust addled mind couldn't comprehend the meaning of those words, not until Allen repeated, louder but still high and shaky, "Wells, stop."

Wells growled in frustration. Frustration with himself more than Allen. He'd let himself get carried away, he'd pushed too far. He had to reel himself back in, re-establish the mindset he'd begun with. Slow and steady, no sudden moves. Patience. Patience wins chess, not recklessness.

He released the fastener of Barry's slacks and cupped his jaw, kissing that sinful mouth again-

" _Stop_ ," Allen repeated, pushing (not hard but forcefully) against Wells shoulders. It wouldn't have been enough to move him, not really, but the action was surprising enough that Wells allowed himself to be pushed away. "What - what are we doing? What am _I_ doing!" Allen's voice went up several octaves. "I can't - we - _we_ can't - I - I - I'm _married_ \- and you're - you're Dr. _Wells_ , you're my boss and - and - and - _I'm married_!"

Wells sighed as he let Barry Allen squeeze out from between him and the wall, fumbling his belt buckle with shaky hands. It appeared Wells' impatience had triggered Allen's "abort mission" sequence. He leaned against the wall, still warm from the young man's body, and watched as the scientist paced back and forth in a small, irregular circle, stammering ineffectively, his face flushed bright red, his formerly neat hair now invitingly tousled. "I mean _really_ \- the nerve - to call me up here only to - to - to _manhandle_ me - what kind of man do you think I am - _sir_ -" He added the formality as an afterthought, with emphasis as if it were an insult, and Wells resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not to mention, Wells thought, Allen's argument was rather deflated by the fact that he still had a very obvious erection tenting his trousers.

Allen noticed the direction of Wells' gaze and flushed a deeper shade of crimson, angling himself behind one of the chairs in front of Wells' desk in order to block the view of his body's betrayal. He held out an accusatory, but shaky, finger. "Th-that proves nothing!" Wells raised a dubious eyebrow, making Allen sputter. "That is simple biology - an unconscious physiological response to stimulation -" Allen realized at the last second that he was making a poor choice of words and decided to return to more solid footing.

"I - I will have you know that I am _married_ \- " _You don't say_ , Wells thought acerbically. "Happily, I might add! I, _sir_ , love my wife and this - this - this - _tomfoolery_ is completely -" He came to an abrupt halt, searching for the right word. The pause lengthened to the point that it was embarrassing for both parties. His blush deepened to an impossible hue, something in the tomato spectrum, and he finally screeched out, "INAPPROPRIATE!"

He made to storm off, got to the door, put his hand to his throat, realized he was missing his bowtie and stalked back. With all the dignity he could muster (which, really, he didn't have very much left), he bent down and picked the tartan scrap of cloth off the floor. When he righted himself, he held the tie out to Wells and shook it emphatically. "I am _very_ disappointed in you, Dr. Wells." And here Wells truly struggled to restrain his laugh, because of _course_ Barry Allen's voice cracked on his name.

With perfectly adorable hottiness, Dr. Barry Allen strode across his office and walked out - without slamming the door, of course, because Dr. Allen was many things but disrespectful he was not.

Wells took a second to rest against the wall and shake his head in amusement. He walked unhurriedly back to his desk and switched on his monitor, where the security feed was still open. Barry Allen was slumped against the wall beside the elevators, hand on his heart, and if the security feed had audio he'd likely be able to hear him gasping for breath. Harrison Wells smiled wryly to himself in the dim light of his office. He'd had a small, but not unexpected, set back. In fact, this sort of reaction was a common occurrence at this early stage and he was well-versed in handling it. The young man would need space now, and he'd give him that. If he pushed again, too soon, he'd risk losing Allen for good. No, now he'd have to wait for Allen to come to him. Barry Allen. Beautiful, ridiculous Barry Allen. Wells had known what he'd wanted from him since the moment he saw him, on his first day at STAR Labs, eyes wide with wonder, mouth slack, the way he'd gripped Wells' hand as though it was something precious, holy. He'd known then what he'd wanted. And by God was he going to get it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Barry Allen burst into his house like a swimmer surfacing for air. Before the door had even slammed behind him he was calling out, "Iris? Iris! Iris darling!" His long, gangly legs took the stairs three at a time. She wasn't in their bedroom. At this late hour she should already be home. He loped back down the stairs, calling for Iris all the way, as if she wouldn't have already heard him if she was home. It was only on his way back into the living room from the unoccupied kitchen that he saw the red light flashing impatiently on the answering machine beside the phone. He wiped his sweaty hands on the front of his cardigan and rewound the tape, clicking down the play button when it refused to wind any further.

"Heya, sugar. It's me," Iris' tinny voice filled their home, both warming Barry's heart and filling it with cold, consuming guilt. "There was a shooting downtown - don't worry, nothing serious - but I'm gonna have to work late tonight. Sorry I couldn't make it home for dinner. If it was anything good, don't forget to save some for me! Don't wait up for me, okay? Love you."

Barry lifted off his glasses to rub the heels of his palms into his eyes. What a cad he'd been. What a contemptible cad. How could he _do_ such a thing to Iris? He'd made a vow, a solid vow, to be faithful to her, and all it had taken was a little praise and a demanding mouth and his legs had turned to jelly. At least he'd put an end to it before - before he - it hardly bears thinking about! And a _man_ at that! How could he - what had _come over_ him! Granted, Harrison Wells was an extraordinarily good looking man, for any age, with those unreal, piercing blue eyes, whose intensity, when focused solely on Barry, made his stomach flutter, and his unruly black hair peppered with silver, which always made Barry want to reach out and run his fingers through it, if only to tidy it, and his surprising strength for such a sinewy man and - what the _heck_ was he even _thinking_!

No, no, all these things he'd ever noticed about Dr. Wells, the giddiness he felt when he talked to him, the way he flushed with nerves when Dr. Wells caught him staring at him, that was all because, well, because Dr. Wells was his hero, his idol, he admired him. That's all. Wasn't it? He couldn't think straight anymore, his thoughts turning over and over on themselves. He was still too hot and sticky from - from - the confrontation. He needed to cool off, he needed to clean this unhelpful train of thought out of his head.

He galloped back upstairs and started running himself a shower, letting the bathroom fill with steam before undressing, so he wouldn't have to look at himself in the mirror. He'd thought to take a cold shower but the idea just ended up sounding too unpleasant, so he turned the water to just past comfortably hot, hoping to scorch the memory of Harrison's touch off his skin. The memory of Harrison tugging his hair. The memory of his searing lips, his forceful tongue ravishing his mouth. The way he'd felt like he was on fire when Harrison ground his hips into him, the pleasure that shot through him, that settled in his gut. How, when Harrison had started unbuckling his belt, he'd known what was coming next. He'd known Harrison was going to push his strong, chemical-calloused hand into his trousers and -

Barry bit his lip to keep from moaning. He couldn't remember when he'd gripped himself, when he'd started slowly pumping, but he was so unbearably hard. As hard as he'd been when Harrison had had him pushed against that wall, sucking on that sensitive spot just below his ear. God, he'd wanted him so much in that moment, in that blissful, blind moment before reality had crashed back in. He'd wanted him to touch him, he'd _needed_ him. He'd wanted Harrison to yank his trousers down, to turn him around, to bend him over and, Jesus, he'd wanted him to - to -

Barry cried out as he came, his ejaculation splattering the tiled wall, pumping his fist over his cock through the waves of his orgasm, imagining it was Harrison Wells' hand, imagining Harrison Wells was whispering in his ear, kissing his neck, telling him he wanted him.

When he was wrung out and sated he pressed his forehead against the cool tile, letting the burning water pound against his back, letting shame flood his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe. He'd let Harrison Wells, Dr. Harrison Wells, founder and CEO of STAR Labs, kiss him, touch him, and he'd _wanted_ it. There was no hiding from that. He'd let Iris down. He'd let himself down. All he could do now was try to make amends. And ensure it never, _ever_ happened again.

When Barry got out of the shower Iris still wasn't home. Which he supposed was a relief since he wasn't quite yet ready to face her. He'd wanted to see her as soon as he'd left STAR Labs, if only to reassure himself that he still loved her - which he absolutely still does - but now he realized it was for the best that he didn't. He was a notoriously poor liar, especially with Iris, and she would have seen as clear as day that something had happened to him. No, what he needed was a good night's sleep and plenty of time to reflect. He'd make it up to her. So help him, he would.

Barry had been in a deep sleep when he felt a delicate arm wrap around his waist, a kiss planted on the back of his neck, the smell of lilacs enveloping him.

"Sorry I'm late, sugar," Iris' voice was melodious in Barry's ear. "Did you worry?"

Barry's brain was too sleep fogged to remember what he was supposed to be anxious about. So he just smiled drowsily and said, "Always, dear. Love you."

"I love you too, honey." She kissed Barry's neck one last time before Barry drifted back into a pleasant dream.


	2. It Don't Mean a Thing

**Part 2: It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)**

Barry Allen had been avoiding Dr. Harrison Wells for exactly one week and one day. "Had been" because now he positively, absolutely _had_ to see him and there was positively, absolutely no way around it. He'd checked. Repeatedly. But with Dr. Hewitt sick, and Dr. Snart's lack of familiarity with the project, Barry was the only one with the knowledge and, indeed, reason to present Harrison Wells with the proposal for the Quark matter destabilization syphon recalibration implementation schematics. And Dr. Wells _had_ to sign off on it before he implemented the recalibration. _Had_ to. He'd checked. Repeatedly.

So now Barry was standing outside of Dr. Wells' office, clutching his pad for dear life, feeling sweat beginning to bead up on his brow. _You can do this, Bartholomew_ , Barry commanded himself with an assuredness he didn't feel. _If you can get through Thanksgiving dinner with Joseph West, you can get through this. Now buck up and go in there_.

Barry steeled himself and raised his fist to knock on the door. Gideon had told him he could go right in but that didn't mean he could just barge into someone's office (Dr. _Harrison Wells'_ office) without knocking. For a second he thought he heard Dr. Wells talking to someone and he hesitated. If he's busy he should come back later. But what would he do for the rest of the day if he didn't begin the recalibration? He'd already delayed enough, he'd finished all his ancillary tasks, and several games of solitaire. No, he _had_ to do this. He took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in," came Dr. Wells' raspy voice, sending a wave of butterflies into Barry's stomach which he quickly attempted to stamp down. He opened the door to find Dr. Wells on the phone. He only spared Barry a quick glance before looking away, then turned back in a near comical double-take, his crystal blue eyes, unobstructed by glasses, widening a fraction in surprise.

Barry's breath caught in his throat. He had spent exactly one week and one day convincing himself that what had happened between himself and Dr. Wells had been a fluke, a cosmic accident, one that would never be repeated, and that whatever "feelings" he'd believed he held for the scientist were either the products of confusion brought on by unexpected attention and (ahem) stimulation, or were distorted and misplaced feelings of hero-worship.

But now, standing in Harrison Wells' office, coming face to face with the man, it was painfully clear to Barry Allen that he was neither confused nor was he in simple "awe" of this man. He was infatuated. Plain and simple. And there was no way around it.

"No, no," Harrison said into the phone. "I _told_ you already, you're not allowed to - I don't care if all the other girls are going, _my_ daughter is not going to be seen at some second-rate playboy's 'yacht party' and that's final." A brief pause. "You can hate me all you want, but if it'll keep some drunken bachelor's hands off of my only daughter then I can live with that." His tone was firm but without rancor. Another brief pause, during which Dr. Wells smiled fondly to himself and Barry felt every bit as though he were intruding. Then Harrison added, "I love you too. Bye, sweetheart," and pocketed his phone.

"I'm sorry about that," Dr. Wells said, gesturing for Barry to take a seat in front of the desk he was casually leaning a hip against. Barry wondered idly, as he sat, if Harrison Wells ever actually sat behind his own desk. "Teenage daughters can be… trying."

"Was that Jesse?" Dr. Wells raised an eyebrow and Barry felt a blush rise in his cheeks. "I _did_ read your biography. I was your biggest fan, remember?"

"Was?" Dr. Wells asked, sounding far too amused for Barry's liking.

Rather than answer, Barry cleared his throat and held out the pad. "The, uh, recalibration proposal schematics." Dr. Wells took the pad, began swiping across the screen, flipping through the pages too fast for him to be reading them. Barry felt obliged to clarify, if only to fill the uncomfortable silence, "For the Quark matter destabilization syphon."

"I am aware, Dr. Allen," Dr. Wells dismissed. He paused on a particular page, finger hovering above the screen. Barry swallowed heavily. Harrison Wells may be many things but he was and always would be a genius, one who far outclassed Barry, and would likely always hold the young scientist's respect concerning all matters scientific. So when Barry saw Dr. Wells' eyebrows draw together as he reviewed his proposal, his stomach dropped to just below his colon.

"You're replacing the deionization couplings with centrifugal pulse modulators?"

"Yes! You see, we were looking at the syphon all wrong," Barry popped up from his chair, coming to stand beside Dr. Wells to flip the page forward and point out the new formula he'd devised. "We were thinking about containment instead of thinking about the syphon as what it is: an energy extraction system. We were so focused on dampening the output that we were overloading the couplings _and_ generating a _sixteenth_ of our potential final yield."

Dr. Wells was shaking his head. "Yes, but what about ionic particle decay?"

"That's the best part," Barry enthused, unable to help the enormous grin that was stretching his face. He flicked the file forward several pages until it landed on a new schematic. "By recalibrating the same hadron dispersal injection system we were already using we can flood the chamber with an additional pulse resonance to convert the ionic decay into _protonic_ decay and -"

"Harvest the displacement as additional energy output," Dr. Wells finished for him with an air of amazement, Barry nodding emphatically at his expression of realization. "That is… brilliant, Dr. Allen."

Barry's face heated up and he ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly (but still grinning like an idiot no matter how much he willed himself not to). "Well, I don't know if it's _brilliant_ -"

"These recalibrations," Dr. Wells gestured with the pad. "Were your idea, weren't they?"

"Dr. Hewitt was instrumental in bringing the syphon project to where it is today-"

"Yes, that's very humble of you, Dr. Allen, but this formula-" He placed the pad down on the desk just behind him and tapped it with a sure finger. "Is entirely your invention, is it not?"

"I _did_ write the formula, yes-"

"Then accept the praise, Dr. Allen," Harrison Wells laughed and Barry's breath momentarily caught, blinded by his flashing blue eyes. The moment lengthened and he realized he'd been staring. He coughed and looked away, at anything, and ended up training his eyes on his tan wingtips.

"I-" He started, found his voice was too high and started again. "Thank you. Dr. Wells."

"You know, Dr. Allen," Harrison began, leaning closer to him and Barry realized just how close they had actually been. When had he made the decision to get this close to him? "I knew you were a rising star the moment I saw you." Barry snorted. "I mean it. When we first met, I said to myself, 'Here is a young man with a bright future ahead of him.' And you have not disappointed me."

Barry looked up at him through his lashes and found Harrison watching him with unwavering intensity, an intensity that caused the butterflies to course through his gut with renewed vigor.

"Barry Allen," Harrison said, his voice low and husky, making Barry's heart speed up tenfold. "Barry Allen," he repeated, closer now and Barry didn't dare look up at him. "What would you say if I told you I haven't been able to stop thinking about you?"

Barry closed his eyes, willing his nerves to settle, willing his pulse to slow. He can't be hearing this. This can't be happening. Not again. He didn't trust himself to say anything so instead only shook his head in a short, jerky movement.

"And, I think," Harrison was so close Barry could feel his breath against his ear, feel the warmth of his body against his side. He didn't dare move. "That you haven't been able to stop thinking about me either."

On instinct Barry's head shot up and he immediately regretted it. It was bad enough having to feel him so close but to _see_ him, standing so near that he could make out the darker blue flecks in his eyes, standing close enough that if he just leaned a little closer he could-

"You might deny it but I've seen the way you look at me, when you think no one is watching, those shy glances, full of longing, of _need._ You said you 'weren't that kind of man'," Harrison quoted back to him. Barry didn't have time to be embarrassed at the memory of his own words because Harrison's hand was trailing up his arm, his shoulder, to his neck, to ghost his rough fingers along his throat, to graze his knuckles along his jaw, sending shivers up Barry's spine. Barry couldn't look away from him, from the hungry eyes that were watching his mouth. And he couldn't help the arousal that was building, hot and heavy, deep in his belly. "But, if I remember correctly, you're the type of man who'll let himself be rutted against like an animal pinned to my office wall." The sound of Barry swallowing was embarrassingly loud, and he briefly hated himself for how hard it made him to hear the whispered filth tumbling from Harrison Wells' lips.

"I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do now, Barry," Harrison went on, voice barely audible as he tilted Barry's face to plant feather light kisses to his cheek, to his ear. Barry's heartbeat was deafening. "I'm going to kiss you, I'm going to jack you off, I'm going to make you come, and you're not going to stop me. Do you want to know why you're not going to stop me?"

Barry was gripping the edge of the desk with white knuckles, knees weak. He dearly hoped Harrison couldn't see the effect his words were having on him - which would be fairly obvious if either of them happened to look down. He was disgusted with himself for wanting it so badly, for needing Harrison to touch him. Every little breath on his neck, every gentle kiss, every brush of his fingertips, set his skin ablaze. He felt himself leaning into the other man, arching his neck to give him better access. He wanted Harrison so badly it was like a physical ache. He realized belatedly that Harrison was actually waiting for a response. He cleared his throat before speaking, ensuring his voice wouldn't squeak when he opened his mouth. "Why?"

Harrison wrapped his fingers around Barry's throat, just as he had that night one week and one day ago, and spoke directly into his ear. "Because you don't want me to stop."

A sound inadvertently escaped Barry, halfway between a gasp and a whimper, and that one sound broke the flood dam that had built up between them. Harrison and Barry reached for each other at the same time, Harrison enveloping Barry in his surprisingly strong arms, Barry throwing his own around the taller man's shoulders, their mouths meeting harshly in the middle with a clash of teeth and tongues and stubbled cheeks grating against stubbled cheeks.

God, his mouth was just as incredible as he'd remembered, as in the dreams he'd had that he woke from sweaty and guilty. Last time he'd tasted of Scotch, but now, Jesus, now it was all him, sweet and heady and Barry could have kissed him forever, opening his mouth wide, wide enough to allow Harrison access to the deepest parts of him, working his jaw against Harrison's as the man ravished him, lapped at the inside of his mouth, pressed against his tongue.

Harrison pulled back to capture Barry's bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, eliciting a wanton moan from Barry that he didn't think he was capable of. When he released him Barry leaned in to kiss him but Harrison swerved and began kissing his neck, licking and sucking on that sensitive spot that made Barry throw his head back and dig his nails into the soft velour (velvet?) fabric of Harrison's blazer.

He could feel Harrison unbuttoning his cardigan but Barry couldn't be bothered to care because Harrison had angled a thigh between Barry's and _pushed_ and oh - oh - that felt good - "Haaahn-" Barry gasped out, grabbing onto Harrison's hip to steady himself as he rutted against his thigh, his head lolled back as Harrison kept doing _things_ with his tongue against his ear. Harrison pushed his cardigan off his shoulders and pulled his wonderful mouth away from Barry's neck to focus on pulling off Barry's bowtie and begin unbuttoning his shirt.

Barry couldn't help it, he ducked his head and caught Harrison's mouth with his own. God, he was such an amazing kisser. No one had ever kissed Barry the way Harrison Wells did. Like he _owned_ him, like he was claiming every inch of him. And he wanted him to. God help him, he wanted Harrison Wells to claim all of him.

Harrison yanked Barry's shirt tails from his trousers to unbutton the last remaining buttons and all too soon their kiss was broken again, but then Harrison's mouth was claiming his collarbone, his sternum, capturing a nipple with his teeth -

" _Holy_ hell -" Barry swore, tendrils of pleasure coursing through him, pooling in his gut, his fingers running through Harrison's thick, dark hair as the older man worried his sensitive flesh between his teeth, darting his tongue out to smooth over it, making Barry's hips jerk involuntarily with a high-pitched moan. "Ohh fu- God - _Harrison_ -"

Harrison made a sound against his skin like a starving animal and immediately had his hands on Barry's belt, unbuckling, violently yanking the thin piece of leather out his slack's belt loops, sending a surprising thrill through Barry's veins. He was halfway through unfastening his trousers when the most vocal and sober part of Barry's subconscious self-preservation realized he was about to be very indecent in the middle of Harrison Wells' office. In the middle of the day.

"Harrison, wait." Barry could have sworn that Harrison had _murder_ on his face when he looked up at him. "The-the door," Barry stammered. "It's not - we didn't -"

Harrison breathed out a laugh, tension easing out of the set of his jaw. He tilted his chin towards the ceiling and called out, "Miranda."

An emotionless, synthetic voice responded, "Yes, Dr. Wells?"

"Lock the door and hold all calls, please."

"Yes, Dr. Wells."

Harrison's mouth was back on Barry's neck before the AI had even finished responding to his command, the sound of the door's lock clicking automatically into place. "That - that's convenient," Barry chattered self-consciously, a little more awake now than he had been.

"Mmm," Harrison hummed into his skin, hands deftly working open his fly and yanking his slacks and underwear down over his ass in one skilled movement. Then he did what was both the most disgusting and arousing thing Barry had ever seen: he spit, heavily and wetly, into his palm before closing his fist around Barry's swollen, leaking cock.

"Jesus Chriiii- aaaah haaah-" Barry cried out, throwing his head back, gripping the desk with one hand and Harrison's shoulder with another to keep from falling. He immediately launched into a punishing pace, his fist a blur as it flew over Barry's erection, hot and tight and _incredible_ and -

"Ohh - ohhh _God_ \- Harrison -" If he'd had more wherewithal to be ashamed he would have devastated by how high-pitched and wanton he sounded, how between gasped nonsense he was making the most ridiculous little cries and whimpers, sounds he'd never made before.

"That's it, Barry," Harrison rasped, his voice hot, breath heavy from effort, his pumping unrelenting. "Yeah, Barry, that's it."

He wasn't going to last. He knew he couldn't last, not when Harrison was going so fast, twisting his wrist every other stroke, squeezing almost painfully tight. Barry could already feel his climax building, his balls tightening, pleasure and arousal a tight, blazing knot in his solar plexus. "God - Harris - I'm gonna - haah - I'm -" He panted incomprehensibly, his hand fisted painfully in Harrison's jacket.

"Come for me, Barry," he growled. Barry unclenched his eyes to look at him and found him leering down at him, hungry, wanting, and it was so filthy it made Barry's toes curl, his orgasm so close he was trembling. "That's it, Barry. Let it go. Come for me."

Barry's back bowed, a guttural groan dying on his lips and his mouth falling open as his orgasm slammed through him, making the world go dark and stars swim in front of his vision. He felt the heat of his own come on his naked stomach, could hear the slick sound of Harrison's hand tugging his climax out of him even as his fist was coated in it. Harrison pumped him until Barry thought his soul was getting pulled out of him, until there was nothing left and Barry whimpered from overstimulation.

When Harrison finally released him the strength left Barry's body in a rush and he would have collapsed bonelessly if Harrison hadn't caught him by the shoulders.

"I've got you," Harrison soothed, voice hoarse from arousal, breathing labored. "Good boy, Barry. You did good. I've got you."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Barry Allen clung to Wells with feeble fingers, his face and chest flushed red, sweat falling down his forehead in beads and clinging to his long, dark eyelashes along with the pleasured tears that stained his askew glasses. He looked like he was in a daze, like a somnambulist. If he'd thought Barry was beautiful before, that was nothing compared to how sinful he looked right now.

He'd waited, patient as a saint, for one week and one day. He would have waited longer if he'd had to. Patience is a tricky word, however. He waited with no expectations to break that wait in favor of action, but that didn't keep him from seeing the boy's face every time he closed his eyes, from remembering his soft, trepidatious lips, so pliant under Wells' ministrations, from feeling the ghost of his smooth skin under his fingertips when he fisted his hands in his bedsheets at night, trying and failing not to relieve the tension in his body through vigorous self-abuse. But he'd been patient. And, just as he'd predicted, the young scientist had come to _him_. Under the guise of the Quark matter destabilization syphon project, but he'd come of his own volition, alone, and Wells had seen through that thin deception as clearly as he'd observed Barry Allen through the Labs' security feeds.

When the heaving of Barry's chest subsided, the boy's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at Wells, arm still around his narrow shoulders, with glazed grey-green eyes and a dopey half-smile that was so painfully endearing Wells had to actively stop himself from kissing the boy senseless all over again. Rather, he ran his knuckles over Barry's gently stubbled jaw and breathed, "You truly are a beautiful boy."

Barry's lopsided grin grew into a full, bashful one, so brilliant, so gorgeous that Wells' rationality thought "fuck it" and he leaned in to kiss him. Before he could make contact, however, Barry's eyes flicked down and his eyebrows creased, mouth falling open in a silent "o". Wells quelled the feelings of disappointment that threatened to rise behind his ribcage. The shame, self-disgust, and denial reaction was expected, but rather premature at this stage.

Surprisingly, however, Barry said, "I'm so sorry."

Wells exhaled a confused laugh. "What, pray tell, do you have to be sorry about?"

"You're jacket," he offered by way of explanation and twisted himself in Wells' arms to reach across the desk and grab a box of tissues. He pulled out a single tissue and folded it into a neat square before taking it to Wells' blazer and dabbing at it carefully. Wells laughed more earnestly when he realized that the "mess" their exertions had made of his blazer was dismaying Barry.

"I'm so sorry - I've ruined it and it's so beautiful - is it velvet?" The young scientist anxiously ran his words together, and Wells found himself laughing, actually laughing, in a way he hadn't done since he couldn't remember when. He caught Barry's wrist, stilling his nervous scrubbing, and pried the tissue from his fist to wipe off his own soiled hand.

"I have ten more at home just like it," he winked at Barry and watched with amusement as the boy had the nerve to _blush_ , even after what they'd just done. This man was truly one in a million.

"Of course you do," Barry prattled as Wells took another tissue from the box in his hands to wipe off the splatter of come across the boy's taut stomach. "You're a billionaire, why wouldn't you have a closet full of beautiful jackets."

 _Keeping things in the closet_ is _my specialty_ , Wells thought wryly as he wadded up the tissues and tossed them expertly into the trashcan behind the desk. Barry was looking a tad frazzled (not that that was anything new for the scientist) so Wells cupped his cheek and kissed him tenderly, once, on the lips. When he'd had Barry leaning back, his spine arched in pleasure as he pulled him to climax, he'd wanted nothing more than to flip the boy around, bend him over and _take_ him, fuck him until he couldn't see straight, fuck him so hard he'd feel Wells inside him for weeks. But looking at him now, face relaxed, eyes dreamy, lips slightly parted as if in open invitation, he knew he could wait for him. If he took him now it'd be over, it'd be too much too fast and he'd lose him to an endless downward spiral of regret and guilt. But if he took his time, if he wooed him the way a boy like Barry was meant to be wooed, he could have him completely. And that was worth waiting for, regardless of the protests from his achingly hard erection that threatened to turn into cataclysmic soreness before the day was over.

Even as Wells watched him, Barry's goofy grin took on a mischievous quality. "You haven't-" He started, then reached out a tentative hand towards Wells' belt buckle. "If you want I could-"

Wells pulled away from Barry's reach without thinking. _No_ , he thought desperately. _No, no, no, no. You can't want me. You're not_ supposed _to want me. You'll ruin everything_.

Wells watched confusion flicker through Barry's beautiful eyes. When Wells spoke his voice was cold and flat and he hated himself so profoundly he could have thrown up. "Shouldn't you - compose - yourself, Dr. Allen? Your absence will be noticed by your colleagues."

The hurt that crossed Barry's face was a palpable, living thing, and Wells felt not unlike a man who had just kicked a loving puppy. He hated Barry's expressive face, he hated himself, he hated the kind of man he had to be, he hated this fucking world that forced him to be this way.

"Oh," Barry Allen said, his eyes suddenly shiny. "Oh. Yes. Of course. I'll just…"

Wells couldn't even enjoy the sight of the young scientist's perfect ass he bent over to lift up his trousers. If only Barry hadn't wanted him. If only it had gone according to his meticulous plan, the same plan he'd effortlessly executed for the past sixteen years with the one exception of… And that's the point, God damnit. He didn't want to repeat the same terrible mistake he'd made almost two years ago. If only Barry had been like the others, if only it had stayed to the same formula, he wouldn't have to see the soul-crushing pain in the boy's eyes, watch him dress like an abused whore, pretend not to hear him sniffle when he turned his back to retie his ridiculous, adorable bowtie. _Why couldn't you just hate me like all the rest?_

After he finished buttoning his plaid cardigan, Wells handed him the pad he'd brought to show him the, frankly, genius recalibration schematics for the Quark syphon. Barry hesitated with it in his hand, weighing it, watching the dark screen as if it might reveal some answer like a very flat magic eight ball. He opened his mouth and his voice was too high, too uncertain, to heartbreakingly vulnerable. "Dr. Wells, I-"

"Goodbye, Dr. Allen."

Whatever hope there had been in the young man was snuffed out like a candle flame. Barry Allen set his jaw and, without looking at him, turned on his heel and exited Wells' office. He didn't hold the door. It slammed shut behind him.

Wells didn't bring up the security feed on his console. He didn't want any further proof of the hurt he'd caused him. For the first time in almost two years Dr. Harrison Wells wished he was a normal man.

 **A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's read and subscribed! I hope you're enjoying the story ^-^! To all my readers, I'd love to hear your opinions, so don't be shy and drop me a line :) See you next week, when we start to delve more into emotions and "angst" - though don't worry, there'll still be plenty of sexy time!  
 **Spirit:** Thank you for commenting! Gosh, it's so great to hear you're enjoying the story so much! I was nervous about starting an Earth-2 Barrison fic because I didn't think a lot of people would be into it, but it's good to know I've transcended boundaries and got you hooked! I hope you keeo reading :)


	3. I Get a Kick Out of You

**Part 3: I Get a Kick Out of You**

On a normal evening in the West-Allen household, Barry would return home at a quarter to seven. He would begin cooking dinner, as he was the expert chef in their home. When he was roughly halfway through, if crime had been particularly average that day, Iris would return home. She would be exhausted, of course. The first thing she would do would be to call out to Barry that she was home. Then she would take off her coat, take off her shoes, and mix herself a martini. She would collapse on the sofa in the living room and proceed to regale Barry, still in the kitchen, with the happenings of her day, often punctuated by Barry coming out of the kitchen every so often, a skillet in hand, to say "No!" or " _Iris_ , you _didn't_!" and "If I'd known what a scoundrel you were going to be before I married you-" To which Iris would always reply, with a roguish smile, "Yes" and "I did" and "You would have married me twice as hard." Then they would sit down to a lovely dinner, over which Iris would always gush, "How did I land myself such an amazing husband?" And they would leave the dishes in the sink for the morning and hie themselves up to bed for a fair bit of canoodling before exhaustion overtook them both and they would fall asleep, happily, in each other's arms.

Tonight, however, was different.

Recently, Barry had been regularly putting in overtime at the office, but for the past week he had been actively _avoiding_ it, much against his over-accomplishing nature. And tonight he had not only circumvented a late stay but had in fact returned home _early_ , having left STAR Labs not an hour after his "encounter" with Harrison Wells. He was therefore nearly finished with his dinner preparation when he heard Iris come home, the door slamming shut and her melodious voice carrying through the house, "I'm home, sugar!"

She prepared herself her standard martini (on the dirty side, with three olives, as Barry well knew) and draped herself across the sofa, proceeding, as was her wont, to loudly recount her day with only minimal exaggeration. But tonight, Barry wasn't listening. His mind was in overdrive, replaying the events in Harrison's office over and over again, trying to find the one moment when the mood shifted, when he must have somehow ruined what had transpired between them. Whilst also trying to combat the horrific sense of guilt that threatened to consume him beyond recognition.

One time was understandable. Not condonable, but understandable. Everyone has a moment of inexplicable weakness, even those as profoundly in love with their wives as Barry was. Things happen, men are men. When someone throws themselves at you, you aren't always operating on all cylinders, and sometimes, _sometimes_ , events can get away from you. Your body responds before your brain can catch up. And if you're one of the lucky few, you can stop yourself before events cross the border into irredeemable territory.

But twice? And not just twice but… The first time had been a kiss, a bit of groping in the dark, nothing that can't be explained away by professional infatuation and physiological response. But the second time had been… had been… He couldn't even think about it without blushing. Harrison Wells had done precisely what he'd told him he would do: kiss him, jack him off, and make him come. He could barely conjure the memory of those words without heat rising under his collar and arousal building in his gut. How does a man let that happen if he doesn't _want_ it? A normal man would have pushed him off. Surely Barry was not the strongest man he knew, and yes Dr. Wells had a few inches and several pounds on him but if he'd wanted the man off of him he'd have found a way. Short of holding a gun to his head, there really was no way Harrison could have forced him to do anything against his will. And yet. And yet he had stood there, let Harrison Wells touch him, heard those filthy words come out of his mouth, the mouth of the man he had spent the better part of a decade adoring, and he'd thought _Yes, God, please, yes._ And he'd welcomed the touches, the kisses, the… the… _sex_ , because it was that, and he'd not only not tried to stop it but had wanted it with every atom of his being and he'd even wanted to _reciprocate_. He'd felt Harrison's hand on him and he'd wanted nothing more than to give the man the same pleasure he was feeling. He'd wanted to hold the heft of him in his hand, he'd wanted to run his tongue along his skin, he'd wanted to be the reason for his arousal, he'd wanted to make him come and know that Harrison Wells had wanted him and only him.

That had been the nail in his betrayal's coffin. The worst betrayal, by the far, was that when Harrison Wells had gripped him to keep him from falling and Barry was sated and content, he'd imagined Harrison wrapping his strong arms around him and _holding_ him. He'd imagined them in bed, doing nothing but laying together. He'd imagined himself wrapped around him, hugging him, falling asleep while Harrison ran his fingers through his hair and told him he was beautiful. The real betrayal wasn't his physical unfaithfulness, it was his heart's. He wasn't just attracted to Harrison Wells, a man, his boss, he was _falling in love with him_.

"Helloooo." Iris' voice made Barry jump three feet into the air. She came into the kitchen's door frame one second after her voice, one hand on her shapely hips, the other holding her half-empty martini glass, two olives already gone, her face one of wry amusement. "Earth to Barry?"

"Wh-what?" Barry stammered, voice too high-pitched, as was its wont when he was agitated.

"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Her tone was teasing but it made his face heat up all the same. "You were miles away, cosmonaut. Something on your mind?"

"Oh, nothing," Barry dismissed with a nervous giggle, gesturing vaguely in the air with a wooden spoon, casting spots of tomato sauce onto the tiled backsplash. "Just - work stuff. Nothing to concern yourself about."

"You know, Barry," Iris started, maddeningly earnest. Why did she have to make this so hard by being so damn wonderful all the time? "I may not understand what you're talking about half the time..." She set her glass down on the counter and came around to wrap her thin arms about Barry's waist from behind, causing him to inadvertently stiffen. "But you know you can always talk to me, right?"

"O-of course, darling," Barry smiled, patting Iris' hand in a way he hoped wasn't awkward. "But there's nothing to talk about. There's - work is just - I'm very busy and -"

"I think we're both working too hard," Iris announced, giving his stomach a firm smack before letting go of him and coming to stand with one hip resting against the counter beside him. " _I_ think, we could both use a vacation."

"A vacation?" Barry squeaked, hating his traitorous voice as he continued stirring the sauce over low heat.

"Yeah. A long weekend, at least. Somewhere warm. It's been weeks since we've even-"

"I - I can't right now - dear - but," he made sure to add the "but" when he saw her eyebrows crease. "But I would _love_ to, it's just not the right time right now, I'm so involved in the Quark matter destabilization syphon, I mean, I'm one of the leading scientists on the project, I simply can't leave right now - _but_ \- but I _promise_ that as soon as the project is completed we're going to take an _amazing_ vacation together."

"Really?" Iris asked, doubtful eyebrows raised.

Barry rubbed her upper arms for emphasis. "Really."

"And where would be going on this romantic getaway?"

"Wherever you want," Barry offered with mustered enthusiasm. "Coast City - oh, or better, Atlantis. Not just for a long weekend, but two weeks. Just you and me, soaking up the sun, drinking exotic beverages out of coconuts with little umbrellas in them."

" _Really_?" Iris hadn't looked this doubtful since he'd told her he wanted Joseph and her estranged brother to spend Christmas at their house.

"Really. Just you and me. A second honeymoon. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

"It sure does." But her voice still carried an incredulous lilt. She shook her head briefly, as if clearing away a thought. "We _have_ been working pretty hard, the two of us. It's good to see that fancy college education paying off though." She pecked him briefly on the lips and snuck around him to dip a finger in his sauce. " Mmm!" she exclaimed after tasting it. "And how did I get lucky enough to land myself a husband who's not just brilliant but an _amazing_ cook?"

Barry ducked his head, not in a frame of mind in the least to accept a compliment from her. "It's just a science, like anything else. The right ingredients at the right dosage combined together at the right time with the right amount of heat creates the desired results."

"Well," Iris said, in the way she did when he started saying things that flew over her head. "If it's a science then it's a delicious science." She pecked him once more on the lips before lifting up her glass from the counter and swaying back into the dining room.

When she was out of sight Barry released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He couldn't continue like this. He couldn't keep up this facade. He couldn't love his wife and hold this flame for his boss at the same time. Something was going to have to break.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Barry Allen. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen. Those two words had been on the tip of Harrison Wells' tongue since the moment Dr. Barry Allen had left his office, all wounded betrayal and puppy love. For nearly two years Wells had managed to have dalliance after dalliance, no strings attached. The game had always been the same, the same as it had been before Hartley had ruined everything. Find a vulnerable young scientist, his entire career ahead of him, so much at stake, seduce him through a series of calculated moves - maybe he's gay, maybe he's not, find him at a weak enough position and he'll cave just the same. Always the regret, the shame, wanting to keep the incident quiet, secret, lest it harm his career. And Wells would be more than willing to oblige. Would say it was par for the course, that he'd done the same with his own superior once upon a time to advance his career. And they would make themselves scarce, apply themselves to their work, and when it was convenient Wells would promote them out of his sight, or they would transfer to another company out of an inability to overcome to their, shall we say, indiscretion. That's how it always went.

It wasn't just opportunity that made these young men desirable. There was something inherently alluring about a promising young scientist, so much like he'd been once - bright eyed, bushy-tailed, entire career ahead of him, so much promise just waiting to be exploited. It was a little like a dying star rejuvenating itself with the light of a burgeoning new sun. But Barry Allen was different. He was a whole other beast unto himself.

Barry Allen was a rising star, yes, but he was so much more. Wells should have seen the warning signs, the way Barry had looked at him when he first started at STAR Labs, the way he'd still caught the young scientist staring at him not more than a month ago at a company-wide meeting. It wasn't just admiration, it was _adoration_. He'd thought he could use him the same way as the others, those who had seen Wells as a father figure or a mentor. But Barry Allen saw him as so much more. And it hadn't really hit Wells until that afternoon in his office when Barry had looked at him with lust in his innocent doe-eyes and had _wanted_ to give him pleasure. Barry Allen wanted him, and that was something Wells could not handle.

He'd made an entire career out of appearing to be a strong, self-assured, charismatic, almost egotistical man, but the truth was that he was weak. Ever since he understood just what he was, he knew he was powerless against others wanting him. He was simply too flattered, too self-conscious, too convinced that no man could ever want him - and why would they? When he was a young man being gay was practically a death sentence. He had to find his release in boys for hire on irreputable street corners. Any man worth his salt who was like him wouldn't deign to give him the time of day, unless they could find some way to use it to their advantage. It was how he discovered early on to use his sexuality as a maneuver in his ever expanding playbook. Sex was a bargaining chip. If you had it and they wanted it, you used it to leverage yourself. If they had it and you wanted it, you found a way to make sure they were getting something more out of the arrangement. When you were like Wells you learned to guard your secret and make sure anyone you exposed it to was very inclined to keep it.

It was rare, for a man like Harrison Wells, that someone should want to be with him, in every way, and that he want to be with them in all those ways in return. Wells, unfortunately, fell in love often. It was a terrible habit, one which he constantly sought to break and hardly ever indulged in. But when someone loved him in return, he was defenseless against it. So was the terrible mistake that was Hartley Rathaway. Wells had thought, for one bright minute, that he might have finally found what he was looking for all these years. That the stars might have finally aligned and this dog was at long last getting its day. That, of course, went to hell in a handbasket. And in the nearly two years since then he had told himself it was over for him, that his chance at love had come and gone, he had ruined it, _spectacularly_ , he had missed his chance and he would have to make do with the same hollow interactions as the ones he had become used to over the two decades he had been playing this unfulfilling game. And then Barry Allen had happened.

Barry Allen. With his fidgeting, long fingered hands. With his stupid eyes that couldn't make up their minds if they were blue or green or grey and instead relied on the weather or the lighting or his mood. With his infuriating brown hair that looked auburn when the sun hit it at the right angle. With his ridiculous lopsided grins that lit up his stupid face and crinkled his idiotic eyes and made everything else in the entire world seem drab and colorless by comparison. Barry Allen who looked at him like the sun rose and set with him, like he was the center of the universe, like he'd do anything to please him and would _love_ it. Wells had seen an easy mark but somewhere down the line he'd become obsessed with the boy, had let himself grow more than fond, and when Barry had wanted him in return, well, it had been the straw that broke the camel's back.

He knew it was dangerous. It was more than dangerous, it was downright reckless. And anyone operating in full command of their faculties would have put an end to it as soon as they realized the potential it posed to completely ruin him. Certainly anyone who had lived through what he had with Hartley would have steered clear of Barry Allen with a birth wide enough to fit an oil tankard. But not Harison Wells. No. Since Barry had stormed out of his office three days ago he'd done nothing but think about the young scientist. He'd done nothing but replay the events that took place that day like a lewd film behind his eyelids, Barry Allen stretched out, taut as a bowstring, begging him for release. He'd done nothing but remember the look on his face when he was sated and fulfilled and looked up at Wells with that ridiculous, dopey grin, and tried his best to be sexy when he offered to return the favor. He'd done nothing but imagine the boy curled up in his arms after being vigorously fucked, laying a tired arm across his chest and smiling up at him while he fell asleep, contented and warm and safe in Wells' bed, in his arms, and waking up with the boy still there, his thick, auburn hair sleep-tousled and his mouth slightly open as he snored gently. He'd replayed over and over in his mind Barry Allen telling him he wanted him, that he needed him, that he couldn't live without him. Barry Allen, his mind had chanted. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen.

So it was with considerable surprise that, after a long day of trying not to think about Barry Allen, Wells returned home to an empty house (Jesse was staying the night at a girlfriend's), poured himself a fifth of Scotch, took two sips, heard the bell ring, answered the door and said breathlessly, "Barry Allen."

Barry Allen pushed himself past Wells without so much as a 'by your leave', storming through the foyer and coming to stand in the middle of Wells' expansive, minimalist, art-deco living room, pacing in a small erratic circle much as he had on the first night they'd kissed. He wrung his hands as he paced, fidgeting unheedingly with the golden circlet of his wedding band, not daring to make eye contact with the flabbergasted Wells, who set his glass aside, not giving further thought to the nearly thirty year vintage.

"I - I just - " Barry started. Like he always did, he thought better of it and began anew. "You have to understand, I am _not_ the kind of man who goes around, willy-nilly, throwing himself at people - at _men_ \- in a position to elevate my career - I - I - _I_ am a self-respecting young man, a _married_ young man, who has his entire career to think of, and I am not about to jeopardize it for a - a - a bodily pursuit, for physical pleasure, because I have more self-respect than that, damnit. And I will not be _harassed_ in an environment that is supposed to be professional, and safe, and - and - and professional! Damnit, I am a man of science! And I will not let myself be coerced into an endeavor that I would never, in good conscience, participate in." He took a second to catch his breath, looking at the gas fireplace as if it had personally offended him. Then he straightened himself to his full height (though still unable to meet Wells' eye), lifted his chin and said, "What happened on Wednesday was a mistake. And -" He faltered for a second but visibly composed himself and continued. "And it can't happen again."

"Uh-huh," Wells deadpanned. Some instinct overtook him then, one stronger than his self-preservation, stronger than his rationalization. He became a creature of pure desire, of animalistic need, and his gut instinct drove him, made him circle Barry, standing so rigid and tense and alone in the middle of his living room. He came up behind him, watched as the fine hairs on the back of the boy's neck stood up. "And you came here," Wells rasped. "In the middle of the night, to my home, _alone_ , to tell me that you never want to see me again."

"Yes," Barry said, while his tone suggested he was anything but sure.

Wells came closer still, until he could feel that sweet heat radiating off the young man's back, until his breath ghosted across his neck above his starched collar. He took in the sight of his damp hair, neatly parted, breathed in his scent like ocean waves and fresh laundry. "And you needed to take a shower and shave and," he made a show of taking in a long, drawn out whiff of him. "Practically bathed yourself in cologne to do so."

Wells could clearly make out the sound of Barry swallowing in the hush of living room. "Yes…?" His voice lilting up, cracking on the last letter, belied his crumbling resolve.

"I think…" Wells began, voice low and predatory. He watched with satisfaction as his words sent a shiver through the boy's taut body. "You… are a dirty... " He leaned until his lips brushed the shell of the young man's ear and whispered the last words directly into it. "Liar."

Barry bit off a whimper in the back of his throat and Wells relished the sound, drank it in, savored it more than he could any fine Scotch. He let his fingers trail along Barry's arm, up his shoulder, and caressed his neck, letting his fingers rest gently at the base of his throat, his thumb on his nape, a light hold but one that still spoke of dominance and ownership, light enough to be freely broken if Barry so desired. But Wells knew he wouldn't. Because that's not the kind of man Barry Allen is.

Wells nuzzled the boy's ear with his nose and pressed a lingering, chaste kiss to the spot just below, the spot he knew, from two encounters already, made the boy keen and tremble. And he didn't disappoint. He knew just how to coax him now, knew the right move to play to make the young man so much melted butter in his hands. It was intoxicating to have that kind of power over another human being, but the fact that Barry was here because he _wanted_ him, because he'd spent as much time thinking about him as Wells had, because he'd use any excuse to be alone with him, at his mercy, made the seduction that much sweeter.

He made his move. "Do you want to know what I do to dirty liars, Barry?"

Wells took note of the tremble that briefly wracked the young man's body at the use of his first name and filed the information away for later. But like an obedient boy, Barry answered his question, if only as a jerky shake of his head.

Wells breathed in deep, arousal already swirling deep within his gut, and breathed out, "I punish them."

This time Barry didn't bother to smother his whimper. It escaped him freely, sending lust washing over Wells in a heady wave. Wells' composure dissolved like so much sand and he wrapped both his arms tightly around Barry's skinny little waist, bringing him flush against his own body, his already hard member pressing lewdly against the younger man's perfect ass, and bit into his neck, sucking, licking, and possibly growling.

Barry threw his head back so it rested against Wells' shoulder, gasping, making strangled little sounds that weren't quite whimpers, his hands reaching behind himself to grip Wells' hips and hold him closer still. Wells groaned, rolling his hips once, twice, into the boy, his hands freely roaming the physicist's hard, flat chest, his surprisingly toned stomach, the stiff bulge in his trousers.

"Huuuhn -" Barry groaned, his long, thin fingers covering Wells' hand and pressing it harder against his crotch, hips starting to rut, backwards into Wells and forward into his hand.

" _Fuck_ , Barry," Wells moaned into his neck, the friction of Barry's movements sending sparks shooting through his stomach, making him dizzy with want.

"Harrison," he whimpered, cracked and full of need and Wells couldn't stand it anymore.

In one brusque movement he spun Barry around and claimed his mouth. Barry met him readily, mouth wide, tongue eager against Wells'. The boy buried his hands in Wells' hair as if he'd been waiting to since he'd arrived, fingers caressing, smoothing and tugging and driving Wells insane. He pushed as far into his mouth as he could, relishing the way Barry's jaw strained against his, the way Barry bent his head back, as if in submission, so Wells was leaning down into him, holding him so he wouldn't fall backwards. He pulled back to nip his bottom lip raw, pull it with his teeth until Barry whimpered. Wells yanked Barry's jacket off hard enough to cause the boy to lose his balance and had to catch him.

Barry looked dazed, his glasses askance, his mole-dotted cheeks ruddy with color, his lips kiss-swollen and wet. He wanted to ravish him, every last inch of him, claim him, make him _his_. Fuck that wife of his he wouldn't shut up about. Barry Allen was his. He was going to _make_ him his. And Harrison Wells always got what he wanted.

"Bedroom," Wells growled, incapable of forming a sentence longer than one word. " _Now_."

He started pushing Barry backwards, the boy stumbling over his own feet as he was manhandled out of the living room, down the infernally long corridor towards the back of the house where Wells' bedroom suite resided. The trip was made longer still by Wells' need to have the young man undressed _as soon as humanly possible_. He tugged his sweater over his head, got it caught on his glasses, essentially blindfolding him with it, and ended up making the scientist stumble against a hanging painting, knocking it off its mounted nail and landing with a thud on the carpeting. Rather than let the young man continue to flail, Wells finished pulling the constricting sweater off the rest of the way, bringing his thin, wire-framed glasses with it, casting them both aside to alit on the geometrically patterned carpet. Barry giggled at the small disaster they'd made but Wells shut him up with another searing kiss, refocusing his attention on unbuttoning his dress shirt.

By the time they made it to the door to Wells' bedroom he nearly had the damned thing entirely undone but impatience got the better of him and he roughly pulled the last length of it open, popping a button or two. A more lucid Barry may have pouted at the blatant disregard for fine tailoring, but the current, lust-drunk Barry merely assisted in the process, slipping his arms free and flinging the garment into the hall.

Wells let out a groan of frustration at Barry's undershirt. "Just how many clothes -" But the protest died on his lips when Barry cast off the undershirt in one fluid gesture as he walked backwards into Wells' bedroom. Wells shut the door behind him, careful to lock it, and turned a lascivious leer on Barry's slender form, the long expanses of his creamy white skin, the splashes of moles, the contours of his abdomen, the light trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks.

Barry seemed to sober slightly, a flush of bashfulness creeping across his chest. Now, now. We couldn't have that.

"Take it off," Wells ordered and relished the way Barry's blush morphed into one of arousal even as he watched him. "All of it. Get on the bed."

The younger man eagerly obliged, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his trousers with shaking fingers, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug his pants and shorts down to his ankles, pulling off his wing-tipped shoes before kicking off the tangle of his clothes. He laid back, stretched out on the bed, all nervous energy and self-consciousness, his red, swollen cock resting on his belly. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked up at Wells from under his long lashes and for a fleeting moment Wells wondered if he couldn't just ask the gorgeous boy to jack himself off while Wells watched, knowing the young man's embarrassment at being on display would bring both of them just as much pleasure. But no. Not tonight. Tonight Wells was going to claim him.

Wells wetted his lips and began undoing his own belt but was surprised when Barry made a noise of protest. Wells stilled, curious. Barry crawled back to the foot of the bed and reached out, but hesitated halfway there, his slender fingers curling into a fist. He looked up at Wells with large, pleading eyes. He struggled briefly for the right words but then settled simply on, "Let me?"

Wells swallowed and nodded mutely, letting his hands fall to his sides.

The tension didn't drain from the younger man, if anything his nerves wound more tightly, hands shaking so violently Wells thought he might not be able to undo his belt after all. But somehow he managed, then started in on the button, the zipper. He paused to wipe the sweat from him brow. Wells carefully placed a hand on the boy's head, slow, easy, so as not to startle him. Then ran his fingers through the silky, still damp hair. Barry closed his eyes, leaned in to the touch. Wells continued, watching him, calming him, smoothing the strands off of his forehead, carding through the short hairs at the back of his head, the nape of his neck.

Barry breathed out raggedly and when he opened his eyes again they were clear. Wells moved to caress his neck, the tense muscles that connected to his shoulders, kneading his thumb into the tendons, as Barry worked Wells pants off, then his shorts. He held Wells' cock carefully, reverently, looked up at him with those great big doe eyes of his, his voice high and unsure. "I haven't ever…"

"You don't have to." And Wells meant it. He could see Barry knew he meant it, it was in the strength of his tone, the sureness in his eyes. But it was the reassurance Barry needed.

He set his jaw, a tendon jumping in his cheek, and he nodded resolutely. "I want to." His voice was even when he said, "I want you."

Wells felt more than arousal course through him, he felt something profound swell in his chest, something he hadn't felt in nearly two years and with it hope bloomed, small and fragile, in the deepest recesses of his heart. He didn't have very much time to dwell on it though, because then Barry was taking him into his mouth and the entire world melted away, dwindled down to nothing but the feel of Barry's lips on his skin, his tongue against the head of his cock, the white hot pleasure when Barry swallowed him down, making the tip bump the back of his throat. Barry coughed but kept going, undaunted, inexpertly holding Wells' cock in a too-tight grip as he bobbed his head, up and down, a steady almost too slow rhythm that had Wells' vision whiting out.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Barry -" Wells groaned, clutching at Barry's head, his shoulders, digging his nails into flesh, trying to keep himself upright, trying to ground himself and stop himself from slamming into the boy's mouth. "Fuuuuck - fuck - that's - God, Barry, that's - God, that's good-"

Encouraged, Barry picked up his pace, loosened his fist, gripped Wells' ass with his other hand. Fighting his instinct to buck his hips was becoming increasingly more difficult. He couldn't fathom how Barry could be so good at this. His hot fucking mouth, his amazing tongue, the way he hollowed out his cheeks and sucked. "Fucking hell, Barry - if you - if you don't stop I'm gonna - _Fuuuck_ \- I'm gonna come -"

Barry made the most pornographic moan that vibrated through Wells cock, into his balls, and he was sure he was going to come _immediately_ if he didn't stop Barry _right now_ \- and coming in Barry's mouth was definitely something he would want to be doing in the near future, but not tonight, tonight he wanted all of him.

He yanked Barry off by his hair, holding his head bent back to expose the long column of his throat and watched his Adam's apple bob on a swallow, his lips red and wet from spit and Wells' precome and God damnit if he wasn't rethinking the idea of letting Barry finish him and coming in that sinful mouth of his.

"Harrison," Barry pleaded.

Wells growled and pushed him back, onto the bed, pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it aside as Barry moved backwards, resting his auburn head on the pillows, one hand reaching down to fondle himself, biting his lip and fuck if Wells wasn't inclined to just watch him. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt as he rounded the bed, cast it aside before reaching into his bedside table and pulling out a strip of condoms and a bottle of lubricant. He savored the way Barry watched him, all nervous anticipation and dark, lust filled eyes, his pupils blown impossibly wide.

"You are in _surprisingly_ good shape," Barry babbled as Wells started kicking his shoes off.

Wells snorted. "For a man my age?" He finished for him with no small bite of irony.

"No, no," Barry corrected quickly, his quirky self-consciousness resurfacing. "Of course not! I mean, you're in surprisingly good shape for - for - _anyone_! I mean, you're in way better shape than I am. I mean, you have abs - legitimate abs - do you go the gym or -?"

"Barry," Wells said flatly, pulling his pants down and kicking them aside.

"Mm?" Barry asked with raised eyebrows.

"Stop talking."

Barry incongruously mimed zipping his mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away an invisible key. Wells huffed a laugh. This boy. This beautiful, ridiculous boy.

Wells climbed onto the bed, pushing Barry's thighs apart and kneeling between them. He kept pushing them, until Barry's long, white legs were spread across the sheets, baring him completely to Wells. Barry flushed anew, face turned aside coyly. Wells leaned over him, grabbing his jaw roughly and forced him to look at him. He tightened his hold on the young man's cheeks until his fingers were leaving white imprints in the heated, red flesh. Wells searched his eyes, trying to read him, trying to detect a hint of reticence, of self-loathing, of fear - emotions he'd learned to read well in the eyes of his former conquests, emotions that he knew would keep him safe. But try as he might, he couldn't find a single trace. All he saw was desire, admiration, a touch of nerves, but most of all _trust_. It was dizzying, terrifying, to be on the precipice of making what was sure to be one of his greatest mistakes, but he was powerless before those eyes. There was no walking away from Barry Allen.

Wells kissed him then, deeply, tasting himself on the young man's tongue, in the back of his throat. He gave him a last nip to his lip as he pulled away, resting back on his haunches while he grabbed the bottle and squirted an ample amount of lubricant onto his fingers, then drizzled it onto Barry's opening, making the boy jerk from the cold. He didn't give him any time to recover, immediately pressing against his tight hole, rubbing, kneading, making him pliant. Barry bit at his lip, eyes falling closed, a hand resting on his gently rising and falling stomach.

Wells pushed the first finger in, slowly, carefully, feeling Barry tense around him, the little exhale of complaint he breathed out through his nose. He slid in up to his knuckle, making small circling motions, stretching him, pushing in and out gently until he felt the young man relax, saw the tension begin to melt out of his shoulders and saw him release his lip from between his teeth to pant open mouthed.

Want made him impatient, as it often did. He'd been so close to climax before, his cock was achingly hard, he could feel his own pulse just behind his balls. It went beyond want - it was a physical need. He _needed_ to be inside him. He went straight from one finger to three, delighting in the way Barry writhed under him, squirmed at the sudden intrusion, whimpering.

"It's okay, Barry," Wells soothed, his voice disconcertingly hoarse. "Just relax. Good boy." He kept pushing into him until he could hook his fingers and _press_ -

"Haaaahhh - !" Barry cried, his back arching off the mattress, hands fisting in the bed sheets.

"That's it, Barry," Wells encouraged, pulling out fractionally before pushing back in and continuing his assault, tapping the same intense spot, watching with a watering mouth as Barry's body undulated, his chest heaved.

"G-God - Harrison - Haaah - aahhh -" He whined, hips starting to grind, pushing himself further onto Wells' fingers as he began fucking him, in and out, faster, harder, pressing, pressing.

"Th-there - _there_ \- Oh God -" Barry cried, sweat running from his forehead into his hair, his hips picking up a rhythm in earnest now, his cock leaking precome onto his stomach. He reached down to touch himself but Wells caught his wrist, pushing it back down onto the mattress, causing Barry to make a high-pitched whine of protest. Wells knew he was ready then. He'd have to be because Wells couldn't wait any longer.

He pulled his fingers out of Barry, eliciting a groan of protest from the boy which was quickly silenced when he saw Wells tear open a foil wrapper with his teeth, unrolling the condom onto his still slick erection. He leaned over Barry and gripped his throat, thumb pressing into the dip between his clavicles, feeling the boy's esophagus undulate as he swallowed, Barry looking up at him with blown eyes and ruddy cheeks.

"I'm going to fuck you," Wells rasped, drinking in the little whimper that escaped Barry at the words. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Barry nodded breathlessly.

"Tell me," Wells growled.

"Y-yes."

" _No_." Wells increased the pressure on the boy's throat and felt his pulse quicken under his fingertips. " _Tell_ me."

"I - I -" Wells could see his embarrassment warring with his arousal. Pushing the boy past his comfortable limit made Wells dizzy with lust. He squeezed just a bit harder, then Barry squeaked out, "I - I want you to fuck me." Then, quieter, "Please."

Wells couldn't stand it anymore. He planted a searing kiss on the young man's lips before releasing him, straightening up to kneel between Barry's splayed thighs. He lifted those lean legs onto his shoulders, gripped his painfully hard cock in one hand and Barry's hips with the other, lined himself up, and-

"W-wait - wait," Barry squeaked. Wells couldn't hold back his groan of frustration. He squeezed Barry's thighs for restraint, breathed deeply, then looked at the boy. He'd thought he'd see the emotions he'd missed earlier, that the doubt and regret would be suddenly prevalent on that devastatingly beautiful face. He was both relieved and touched by the mix of apprehension and shyness he saw instead.

"I -" Barry stopped, swallowed, wet his lips. "Will it hurt?"

"Yes," Harrison answered honestly. He leaned over then, folding Barry in half as he did so, and whispered gruffly against his lips, "And you're going to beg me not to stop."

Before Barry had finished whimpering Wells was already pushing into him, in one hard thrust that made Barry scream out, shoulders hunching and hands scrambling at sheets for purchase.

Wells knew he should be gentle, knew he should go slow, ease the boy into it, but he felt so - fucking - good. Tight and hot and spasming around him. So fucking tight. He couldn't even stop his hips from bucking, fast and shallow. _God_.

"Fuck -" Wells groaned, biting into Barry's thigh. "Oh fuck - Barry - Jesus Christ -"

Barry was a whimpering mess under him, face screwed up in pain. Wells had just enough presence of mind to remember to angle his thrusts, hitting the boy's prostate with every rut of his hips. He knew he wasn't going to last long. It had been too long since he'd last - and good _God_ , Barry felt - he felt so amazing -

"Aaahh - aaah - fuu -fuck - _fuck_ ," Barry swore, the first Wells had ever heard him do so. He could feel Barry's thighs trembling on his shoulders, he knew he wasn't far off either.

Wells held Barry's hips down with a bruising grip and let loose completely, pounding into him, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and their breathless moans filling the air.

"Fuck - yeah - Harrison - " Barry sobbed, arms over his head gripping the headrest with white knuckles. "Yeah - fuck - please - don't stop - please - I -" His body went rigid, back bowed high off the bed, his mouth falling open.

"God yeah - Barry - fuck -" Harrison groaned, hips snapping against Barry's hard enough to bruise. "Come for me - come for me, Barry-"

Barry made a strangled sound, white jets of his orgasm spilling over his stomach, his chest, and the feeling of him clenching down on Wells undid him entirely. He shouted out, guttural, primal, and felt his orgasm slam through him like a freight train, vision blurring, his entire body wracked with the convulsions of it. It seemed to go on for eternity, wave after wave of blinding, intense pleasure, and then all strength drained away from him and he collapsed onto the bony body beneath him.

Wells' cheek rested on Barry's sweat-slicked chest. He could hear the heart thundering inside it, his head rising and falling with the boy's heaving breaths. Wells could have lain like that all night, but he knew he had to pull out, toss the condom before he softened. And he was sure Barry wasn't too comfortable under his full weight.

He rose slowly, body protesting after the rigorous effort, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. Barry looked… well, quite frankly Wells couldn't recall anyone ever looking so beautiful. He was a complete mess, of course. His face a patchwork of mottled flush, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, abdomen a veritable disaster of smeared come, his eyelashes spiky with tears. He looked well and thoroughly fucked, and if Wells had been a younger man he might have found himself growing aroused again at the thought of being personally responsible for the boy's current state. Seeing as he was _not_ a younger man, however, Wells only had enough energy to pad across to the adjoining bathroom, tie off and dispose of the condom, grab a box of tissues and collapse back onto the bed beside the near comatose Barry Allen.

Wells grabbed a fistful of the tissues and wiped off first the young man's stomach, then his own, Barry making no sign he was aware of the touch. Lacking the energy to return to the bathroom, Wells left the wad of tissues crumpled on his bedside table. Barry's breaths were deep, slow and even. Wells was sure he was asleep. The boy looked positively angelic. Wells rolled onto his side to watch him, gently running the back of his knuckles over his cheek. "Beautiful boy," Wells breathed.

"You're not so bad yourself," Barry mumbled and Wells released a surprised laugh.

"I thought you were asleep." Wells couldn't help the soft tone his voice took on, or the tenderness that crept through his chest.

"Almost."

"Get under the covers," Wells ordered without much command. Barry sighed and kicked the sheets down but made no move to cover himself. Wells smiled, flicked off the lamp by his bed, and lifted the sheet and bedspread to cover them both. Underneath the sheets, Barry curled up around his side, head resting on Wells' shoulder, and their bodies fit perfectly together, terrifyingly perfect. Wells ran his fingers through Barry's thick hair even as his heart sped up with apprehension.

"Thank you," Barry murmured softly, breath ghosting hotly over Wells' skin.

"What for?" He asked quietly in turn. Something about being in the dark always made one's voice lower.

"For letting me stay."

Wells had trouble speaking for the sudden lump that formed in his throat. "Of course, Barry. Always."

"I don't want to leave."

"You don't have to." Wells kissed his forehead then, the first affectionate, non-sexual gesture he'd shared with the young man. "Go to sleep."

"Mmkay," he sighed, and Wells held him in his arms until at last, even Harrison Wells, who had not slept with another person in his bed for nearly two years, drifted off to sleep.


	4. It's All Over But The Crying

**Part 4: It's All Over But The Crying**

Harrison Wells awoke slowly, feeling oddly hot under his sheets. He blinked blearily in the cool, early morning light. Then he saw him. Long white arm draped across Wells' chest, his skin unearthly pale in the bluish light, against the dark sheets, the bedspread tangled around his waist and revealing the smooth expanses of his chest, his shoulders, the bumps of his ribs clearly defined by sharp shadows. Half his face was buried in the pillow, pretty pink lips parted, exhaling soft breaths, his messy dark hair spilling into his eyes, stubble forming on his pale jaw. Harrison Wells ran the backs of fingers over that jaw, feeling the bristles tingle his skin. Barry didn't stir.

"Good morning, beautiful boy," Wells whispered, his voice raspy from sleep and too loud to his own ears in the absolute stillness of his bedroom. Wells couldn't recall the last time he'd woken up to find someone in his bed. Yes, he'd missed it, that feeling of trust that someone gives you to fall asleep by your side, the feeling of warmth it gives you to know they stayed, that they didn't dread seeing you in the sober light of day. But more than that, waking up to the sight of Barry Allen flooded his insides with a sensation he'd long since forgotten, something he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever truly felt.

Wells was taken aback by the sudden surge of emotion welling in his chest, constricting his throat. He gingerly pried Barry's arm off of him, laying it gently on the mattress, and carefully rolled out from under the sheets, padding across his bedroom's soft shag carpeting to retrieve fresh underwear, pants, and a sweater from his vast walk-in closet, careful to close every drawer as quietly as he could manage. On the bed, Barry hadn't roused. Wells was thankful the boy was such a deep sleeper, especially for someone with the disposition of a skittish rabbit. Wells only spared himself one more minute to watch his sleeping form, the long white ribbon of his curving back, the swell of his ass just barely revealed by the hunter-green sheets. He wished he could have stayed, or crawled back into bed with him, but, as the clock on his bedside table told him, it was nearly seven o'clock and he had to pick Barry's clothes out of the hall and living room before Jesse made it back from her friend's. The last thing he wanted to do, still reveling in the glow of possibly his most rewarding conquest, was explain himself to his daughter.

Wells unlocked the door and closed it behind him slowly, cringing at the light click as the latch fell back into place. As soon as he turned however, his heart sank. The painting that had fallen the night before was once again hanging, straight and proud, and the clothes that had littered the corridor were nowhere to be seen, not until he looked down and found them, all of them, jacket, shirt, sweater, neatly folded on the floor beside his bedroom door, Barry's wire framed glasses sitting elegantly at the top of the stack like a star on a Christmas tree. Wells scrubbed his hands over his face. Jesse. She must've had another nightmare, come home early, maybe even last night. She might've even heard - God, it's didn't even bear thinking about.

Wells crept on bare feet into the living room and even before he saw her in the open floor-plan kitchen he could smell the coffee brewing and the usually comforting odor of toast. Her back was to him, her auburn hair pulled up into a bun with a blue ribbon to match her blue dress and for one painful minute she looked so terribly much as she had when she was a little girl, when he used to carry her on his shoulders and she would tug his hair and call him a pony. The moment didn't last, of course, because, without even turning around, she called out to him in a terse, cold voice, "Late night?"

Wells tried and failed to keep the tightness out of his voice when he responded, "Jesse, I…"

The clattering of silverware in the sink made him cringe. Her little fists clenched the counter. Still she wouldn't look at him. "Is he just as young as the last one?"

He wished she would keep her voice down. He couldn't lie to her, had never had been able to. Especially when her voice was as full of barely contained pain as it was now. He hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was quiet. "Yes."

"Jesus, Dad!" She tossed her plate into the sink, shattering it, breaking a few of the glasses that had the misfortune of being in its path. The noise felt deafening. She finally rounded on him, her blue eyes full of fire and sorrow too profound for someone so young. " _Again_? _Seriously_? I can't believe you're doing this _again_. After everything we went through last time. You're supposed to be the genius, Dad, didn't you learn _anything_ from what happened?" Wells couldn't answer that so he set his jaw, clenching his teeth. Jesse shook her head in dismay, twists of reddish-brown hair falling into her face. "Does this one work at the labs too?"

"Yes - Jesse, he is not what you think he is," he walked closer, coming to stand directly in front of her, the island counter between them, filling his voice, his eyes, with as much honesty as he could convey. "Barry _is - not - Hartley_ , Jesse."

"It's not him - _Barry_ -" she said his name like it was something disgusting and - Wells had never in his life wanted to strike his daughter but for one fleeting moment he wanted to to slap her. "- I'm worried about. It's _you_ , Dad." She looked at him as though he were completely oblivious and saw contempt, real contempt, in her face. "I mean, for God's sake, after everything that happened and you can't _stop_ yourself from-" She shook her head, turning away as if revolted by the sight of him. Wells' stomach clenched. "How do you think this makes me feel? Huh?" She looked at him again, tears beginning to well up in her huge eyes. "You bring back these guys - _boys_ \- and you just keep getting older while they stay the same age. It's disgusting. One day you're going to bring home a boy and I'm going be older than him. Don't you see how creepy that is?"

Wells was momentarily at a loss for words, numbed by the onslaught of her venomous barrage. He had no idea she'd felt this way about him.

Mercilessly, she continued, a tear breaking free and sliding down her porcelain cheek. "Mom would've been so disappointed in you."

This, at least, Wells could answer. And he clung to it in his certainty, like a lifeline, bringing his fist down on the counter hard enough to make Jesse jump back. "YOUR MOTHER - " he shouted before he could stop himself. He reined himself in and continued, with the eerie calm he knew others found disconcerting. "- Knew exactly who and what I was when she agreed to marry me."

"Oh, that's right!" Jesse cried, acerbic sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "I forgot! I'm a baby of _convenience_ from a _marriage of convenience_. God forbid I was born to two people who loved each other, who actually _wanted_ children. You must've been _so_ relieved when she died - one less act to keep up-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH," Wells hollered, throwing his arm across the counter and casting off the coffee pot, sending it crashing to tiled floor of the dining room. Jesse barely even flinched, her venomous gaze unwavering as she stared him down. She got that from him, his stubbornness, his bullheaded bravery. And his ferocious temper.

Wells rested his hands on his hips, taking deep, steadying breaths, studying the tile floor under his bare feet, one tile not quite flush with its neighbor. His voice was tight with barely contained rage when he spoke again. "How dare you - judge me - Jesse Wells." He looked up again, emphasizing every other word with clenched teeth. "I am your _father_ \- who _I_ choose to bring to _my_ bed, as two consenting _adults,_ is _none of your business_ and I do not have to explain myself to you, this conversation is OVER."

With the last word still ringing in the air, he turned as if to go but Jesse rounded the counter, standing boldly in front of him, the rage that had been bubbling under the surface emerging in fiery waves. "It's every bit my business when who you decide to fuck endangers what's left of this family!"

The wind rushed out of Wells lungs, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words, struggled to grasp what he was hearing from her.

"Your _mistake_ ," she continued, small hands gesturing wildly. "Nearly _destroyed_ us - your reputation, _my_ reputation - Dad, you're lucky he didn't bankrupt us. And if the public had found out what you did to Hartley -"

"But - they - didn't," Wells ground out, stabbing his finger in the air to punctuate each word. "Because _I_ took care of it. Like I always do. Like I have always done for this family."

"If you really cared about this family you would _stop doing this_!"

"I WISH I COULD!" He hollered, a familiar pain stabbing through his chest. "Do you think I want to be this way, Jesse? I am _trying_ here, Goddamn it! I put everything, everyone, ahead of myself - you, the Labs, my career, your mother - one time, _one time_ I let myself feel something for another human being and it -" His voice broke and he shook his head, swallowing down the lump in his throat, trying to stuff the repressed emotions back down where they belonged: buried, forgotten. "I am sorry, Jesse. I am sorry that I raised you to be so _spoiled_ that you would have me sacrifice my happiness in favor of our _reputations_ \- "

"I didn't know I was getting in the way of your _happiness_ ," She cried bitterly, tears falling freely down her cheeks. "Please, by all means - don't let me stop you!" She turned on her heel, her dress flowing around her, her high-heeled shoes clicking against the tiled floor as she dashed to the foyer.

She was nearly at the front door when Wells felt it, the dropping of his stomach that told him he'd fucked up. Despite everything, she was still his little Jesse Quick, his baby girl, his only child, and he would love her more than anything, anyone, in this world until the day he died. No matter how nasty they could be to each other when they lashed out. She couldn't help that she'd inherited his worst flaws along with his best qualities.

"Jesse - Jesse, wait -" He called out, but the slamming of the front door told him it was too late. He lout a groan of frustration and scrubbed his hands through his hair. His heart was still hammering front the fight, adrenaline high. He surveyed the damage done to the kitchen, the dining room - it was unfortunate that they both had a terrible penchant for destroying things when their tempers flared, which was often. He decided to let himself cool down by picking up, and went around the island to collect a dustpan from under the sink. He knew he could leave it for the maid but -

Barry Allen was in the living room. Of course he was. Wells rubbed at his eyes and sighed heavily, defeated. "I'm guessing you heard all of that."

Barry nodded, lips a thin line. His hair was still a bird's nest of chestnut hair, his buttondown was open over his undershirt, and his bowtie was hanging loosely around his neck, but his glasses were back, perched on his thin, sloped nose, his wingtips back on his feet. He held his jacket and sweater against his chest like a frightened child clutching a blanket. Wells braced himself. The look on the boy's face, a convoluted torrent of emotions at war with one another, spoke volumes, and Wells did not anticipate hearing what he would say once he stopped shifting from one foot to the other and fidgeting with a loose thread on the hem of his mohair sweater.

"Did, um, did she say 'Hartley'?" He asked, his voice small, disconcertingly calm, especially for Barry Allen. "As in 'Hartley Rathaway' of Rathaway Industries?"

Wells couldn't see the point in lying. He had a feeling for where this conversation was going, and he knew with an ever more plummeting feeling that it would not end well. "Yes."

"You - and him?"

"Yes." Wells rounded the island again, deciding that the broken dishware would have to stay broken, and sat wearily on a barstool. Barry didn't come any closer.

"It ended badly."

"He -" Wells started. Barry deserved the truth. All of it. He owed him that much. He owed Hartley that much. "Hartley worked at STAR Labs, once. He was…" Wells smiled ruefully. "Brilliant. I hadn't planned on what happened between us. It wasn't just sex, we… It was more. And Hartley fell in love." Wells shook his head, taking a moment to cover his mouth while he recalled, in vivid detail, the feeling of Hartley's skin under his, the way he smiled when he thought he was winning at chess, the way they argued well into the night about this editorial and that publication, the way Hartley looked first thing in the morning, the first time he told Wells he loved him, when he was sick with the flu and Wells visited him at home and was wiping his brow with a damp washcloth. He didn't think it would still hurt this much. But it did. Now even more, as he began registering Barry Allen into the same file, cataloging Barry's looks, his moods, his laugh, to revisit later when he was drunk and masochistic and wanted to remind himself why he could never be happy.

"It wasn't enough for him," Wells finally continued. "The sneaking around, meeting in secret, leaving before dawn. He wanted everyone to know. I told him it was impossible, of course. He had his career to think about and I," Wells broke off to laugh bitterly. "I had my reputation to consider. But he couldn't be happy that way. I knew it. I saw it. But I thought, arrogantly, that if he wanted me enough he would have to accept it, eventually. He didn't. Instead, he said that he didn't care about his 'career' about my 'reputation' and he was going to tell the world, talk to the press. He said I had to 'stop being a coward.' So I -" Wells dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, laughing again to keep from crying. "I fired him."

"What?" He heard Barry ask, small and shaky.

"I terminated his employment. Forcefully removed from the premises. And had the message relayed to him - God, I couldn't even face him myself - like the coward that I am, I had the message relayed to him that if he ever came near STAR Labs, or myself, or my family again, I would make sure that the only job he would be able to get in physics would be teaching it to high school juniors."

A silence settled on them both while Wells let the disgust sink in. He couldn't bring himself to look at Barry so instead he watched the puddle of coffee as it continued spreading across the tiles, searching for the lowest point in the floor,

"You didn't love him," Barry said weakly, a statement not a question.

"That the worst part - _I did_. I loved him and I did it anyway. For my _job_ , for _Jesse_. To perpetuate this - this - _lie_ that I've become, that I worked my whole life for. I thought for sure it would ruin me, it would ruin us. Not just because the world would find out I'm gay - not that that wouldn't have been devastating enough - but because he was so _young_ , and my _employee_ , and I thought - I was _convinced_ \- that if it became public knowledge that I'm - that I am what I am, then others would come out, talk - going back as far as college, for God's sake - everyone would know my entire life was based on lies, it'd - I knew it would be the end of me - _us_. I rationalized that it was better for us to be miserable and apart but with our careers and reputations intact, then together and in love with no future, social and professional pariahs."

A silence lapsed, Wells lost in his own private self-loathing, and Barry… Wells couldn't imagine what Barry was thinking.

"What happened?" Barry prompted when the silence finally stretched too far. Wells still couldn't bring himself to look at him, and he couldn't read the emotion in his voice, it was too conflicted to parse through, so he just did what he could do: soldier on.

"He sued me." Wells let the irony sink in. "For unlawful termination and," he laughed mirthlessly. "Sexual harassment."

"What did you do…?"

"What men like me do. I paid him off. Twenty million dollars. He took it. Hartley's a lot of things but he's no fool. I haven't heard from him since. It'll be two years in June."

Barry said nothing. Wells said nothing. The silence lengthened. Wells could hear the ticking of the art-nouveau clock above the mantle. At long last, he chanced a look up at Barry. The boy was standing in the same spot, arms still hugging his clothes to his chest. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, moving rapidly from side to side as if reading, his jaw clenched so tightly Wells could see the tendons of his neck strain.

"Are you disgusted by me?" The words were out of Wells mouth before he knew he was saying them.

Barry looked at him, his face a study in agony. He smiled the saddest, thinnest smile and said, voice cracked, "No. I'm not. I understand."

Wells reined in the hope that tried to rise in him. "You do?"

Barry nodded jerkily, then furiously swiped away the mutinous tears that escaped. "I understand the kind of man you were - are - because I'm -" His voice hitched. "That's the kind of man I am too." His next words came out in a rush as he raced against the tears that started flowing freely from him, and against the questions, the pleas, the demands that Wells was about to voice. "I'm sorry - I should've never wasted your time - I'll see myself out - please tell Jesse I'm sorry for coming between you -"

"Barry - !" Wells tried to catch him as he stalked past, but the young man wouldn't be deterred. "Barry, wait - please - !"

And, just like Jesse, Barry left him.

* * *

Barry arrived home six minutes before Iris. Just enough time to run upstairs, shed his clothes, and jump in the shower. It would look as though he'd just woken up, was getting himself ready for the day. By the time he got out, Iris would be dead to the world, beat from an entire night on the graveyard shift. He'd be able to avoid her easily enough throughout the day, if he chose. He could go anywhere, down to the Exploratorium, or the Museum of Natural History, like his mother used to take him when he was faking sick to get out of school because he was being bullied. All he would have to do was tell Iris that he'd been putting in a little extra work at the office - the syphon was at a critical enough juncture, even if she had understood the project at all it would be reasonable enough to assume he'd need to spend additional time at the Labs.

But as Barry stood naked under the pummel of water, forehead resting against cool tile, he knew the last thing he needed was more time alone, with his thoughts.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_ STUPID! What the hell had he thought was going to happen when he went over there last night? He'd known, of course he'd _known_. He'd told himself, oh yes, he'd told himself he was going over there to give Harrison Wells a piece of his mind - that that was why he couldn't sleep at night, that was why he couldn't focus at work - because if he was just able to _tell_ him to stay away, if he said it _out loud_ then it'd all go away. Which was the flimsiest excuse he'd ever heard, and he had heard many, especially from himself.

He'd known, when he shaved and dabbed on cologne, when his heart sped up at the thought of being alone with Harrison, when he felt the uncomfortable tightness in his slacks on the taxi ride over. He'd wanted it. He'd wanted him. He hadn't stopped wanting him since Harrison had touched him, hadn't stopped thinking about him, hadn't stopped jacking off to the memory of Harrison's voice in his ear, telling him he was going to make him come.

And he hated it. He hated that he wanted him. He hated that he felt this way. He hated that he was betraying Iris with every thought that lingered on Harrison. He had thought somewhere in the back of his mind that if he just went through with it, let Harrison fuck him, that the feelings would go away. It'd be out of his system. He had a crush, that's all, a maddening, confusing crush - on a _man_ \- but a crush all the same. And once his curiosity was sated, once he'd sown his metaphorical wild oats, it'd be done. He wouldn't feel this burning in his gut, this longing in his chest. Reality would soothe him like an icy cascade of water, he would return to his wife and their calm, gentle, respectful love, like a placid lake, and he'd forget all about the tumultuous sea that had been Harrison Wells. After all, Harrison had made it quite clear in his office that he was only interested in sex, sex he could control, so surely he'd have no qualms about Barry returning to his ordinary Harrison-less routine once he'd gotten what he'd wanted from him.

But then Harrison had opened the door. It had taken willpower Barry didn't even know he possessed in order to get through his little speech, all of it hollow, but propelled by his moral outrage at himself and mounting frustration at his inability to master his own emotions. Meanwhile every inch of him was craving his touch, his lips, his hands, the rasp of his voice in his ear. When Harrison had touched him he'd come apart, completely, willingly, and - he was loath to admit it now - any thought he had of Iris, of wanting to be free of this maelstrom of emotion, was completely forgotten. He'd only had eyes for Harrison Wells. He'd _belonged_ to Harrison Wells. What was more, he'd _wanted_ to belong to Harrison Wells. He'd wanted the man to tear him apart, to rip him open, to use him, to fuck him, to want him, to need him. God, he'd wanted him to need him.

And when it was over, that burning, that ache in his heart, it wasn't gone - it was stronger, warmer, it was a blazing fire behind his ribcage that, every time he looked at Harrison, charred his lungs, seared his heart, took his breath away, made him dizzy, made him want to hold onto the man and never let go. And so many times that night he had felt it - he'd thought he'd felt it - Harrison wanting him too. A warmth in his icy blue eyes, a caress against his skin that was pure affection, the kiss to his forehead, the fact that he let him stay -

A sob tore through Barry as he stood under water that was turning cold. He covered his mouth to muffle the sound, hiccuping sobs escaping him no matter how hard he tried to stop them. Stupid stupid stupid STUPID _STUPID_. He'd actually thought - he'd thought - For one tiny moment it seemed so clear to him. He could envision it, plain as day: waking up in Harrison's arms, Harrison telling him he was beautiful, that he wanted him, that he couldn't live without him and it was just them, the two of them, working together, living together, sharing meals, talking about their days and it had seemed so _simple_ , so _right_ \- and he'd fallen asleep dreaming that he could do that, that they could be together, that everything would be fine because they loved each other.

Fuck. Barry banged his head against the tile. Love. He was in love. He was so deeply, _deeply_ in love he wanted to rip his heart out. How? How could this have happened? He loved Iris, he really, truly loved her, why would this happen to him? If you love someone, shouldn't it be _impossible_ to fall in love with someone else? He'd always been so good. He'd been such a good husband. He cooked for her, he remembered every anniversary, every birthday, he never so much as _thought_ about other women, he loved her. Why would he be punished like this? Especially - _especially_ \- when Harrison didn't want him back, not the way Barry wanted him.

It had been clear from the fight he'd had with Jesse, from what he'd told him about Hartley. He couldn't be with a man, not really. The reasons were so obvious they had taken Barry's breath away. He'd worked so hard, his whole life, to get to where he was. He'd taken advantage of his wife's kindness to get his PhD, to advance his career. And he'd been about to throw it away, for a man that didn't want him, _couldn't_ want him, in any way that wasn't physical, not after what he'd almost lost because he'd opened his heart to Hartley and had to throw it all away to protect what he'd spent _his_ life creating. Barry had been right when he'd said he was that same kind of man: a coward, who'd choose appearances and his career over his heart. He hadn't thought he was that kind of man. Selfish, surely - if you'd listen to Joseph West - but he'd at least thought he was with the person of his dreams, the person he loved. Now he had to go and fall for someone he couldn't even have, and the "perfect life" he'd once thought he had was shattered, it was a sham. He was in love with someone else. He'd ruined it. He'd ruined it all.

Besides, what kind of a fool had he been, thinking they could ever be together? Times were different, better, for people like Harrison - gays - but that didn't mean it was acceptable for men in their positions, men of science, educators, men of esteem in their profession. And what about his parents? Could he ever tell them he'd left Iris, wonderful, beautiful, light of his life Iris to be with a man? That he was going to deprive them of grandchildren, that he was going to bring shame upon them by proxy? And Iris, God, poor, poor Iris. She'd given so much for him - given up her career as a journalist, given up her money, her support and he would, what, just _leave_? Because he found someone that made his heart race and his palms sweaty and the thought of being without him made him physically ill? No, it could never work. He'd been deluding himself to have ever thought otherwise. He was Barry Allen, husband to Iris West-Allen, advanced theoretical particle physicist, one of many employees at STAR Labs. Harrison Wells was Barry Allen's boss and that was all. That was his life. That was the man he was. And he was going to have to learn to live with that. The first step towards regaining what he'd lost was remembering that he loved his wife.

Barry pushed the door open with his foot, tray precariously balanced in his arms, the glass of orange juice rocking threateningly on the wooden surface. Iris was barely visible, just straightened black hair peeking out from under the floral pattern duvet, her body nothing but a vaguely human-shaped lump. Barry took a deep breath, sat down beside her, placed the tray on his lap, and gently rocked Iris' shoulder, or what he assumed to be her shoulder.

"Iris," he called softly, still shaking her shoulder. "Iris, wake up, dear."

Grumbling came from under the covers.

"Iiiiris," he sing-songed. "Good moooorning." He pulled the covers down and Iris buried her face in the pillows, hiding from the daylight. "Or should I say 'good afternoon'." He hoped vehemently that Iris couldn't tell how forced his cheerfulness was.

"What time is it?" Her muffled voice mumbled into the pillows.

"Two thirty, sleepy head."

She groaned, stretched, arching her back like a cat, then turned her face and blinked dark, sleepy eyes at Barry. She caught sight of his big smile, of the tray of eggs Benedict, and grinned lazily up at him. "Good _morning_ , sugar. What's the occasion?"

"The occasion is 'I love you'," Barry beamed, shoving the guilt back down with a mallet, and bent to give her a sweet, chaste kiss on the lips. "Aaaand, I've given a lot of thought to what you said, about going away, and you're right, we've both been working far too hard, and we should take some time off."

"Barry, that's great." She pulled herself up into a sitting position, taking the tray from Barry and balancing it in her own lap. "I'll make the travel plans for next weekend -"

"No, no, no," Barry waved frantic hands. "Why wait? Let's go away now - _right_ now! We don't have work today, tomorrow, and you can call the office, I can call the labs, thell them we won't be coming in for a couple of days - we work so hard, they owe us that much."

"We can't book a trip to Atlantis on such short notice-"

"We don't have to go to Atlantis - we can - we can drive down to Coast City! Remember how much you loved the pier? The lights at night? And we can visit Wally while we're there!"

Iris nodded thoughtfully as she chewed on the hollandaise-soaked biscuit. "I do love the pier…" Then she snorted and shook her head, her face all warm fondness as she looked at Barry. "What has gotten _into you_ today?" She laughed and Barry had to choke down a blush at her choice of wording. "Breakfast in bed, spontaneous getaways - where is my husband and what have you done with him?"

Barry grinned nervously and shrugged. "Just feeling like getting out of town with my beautiful wife, is all. I've been putting in too much time at the Labs, not paying enough attention to you, and I think it's time I try changing that."

"Well, I definitely approve of this 'brand-new Barry Allen'." She laid her hand on his where it clutched the bedspread and squeezed. She swallowed down her mouthful of eggs with the cool glass of juice and winked at him conspiratorially. "Let's do it, sugar."

Barry's smile turned genuine then. He cupped her soft brown cheek in his palm and leaned in to kissed her but Iris paused halfway. "What happened there?"

Barry followed her line of sight and realized she was looking at his neck. When he'd exited the shower he'd been mortified to find a small collection of hickies there, just above his pulse point and under his ear. He'd scoured the bathroom for a fair fifteen minutes and had finally come up with a large band-aid, designed for skinned knees or elbows, and stuck it to his skin, simultaneously disguising and drawing attention to the spot in question.

"Oh, oh - this?" Barry laid a hand over the band-aid. "Hand ah - slipped, this morning, when I was shaving."

Iris just smiled and shook her head, amused. "Always so clumsy. It's a wonder you don't set your lab on fire." She put her hand over Barry's where it still clutched his neck. "You better be more careful, sugar. One of these days you're really going to hurt yourself."

She closed the distance between them and kissed his lips. Barry kissed back, as tenderly and as lovingly as felt he should and violently repressed the traitorous thoughts that told him he was kissing the wrong person.

Things got easier once they arrived in Coast City. They had taken the train out West and Barry had always adored trains - he and his father had shared a mutual love of constructing models of them and some of Barry's fondest memories of his father were of painting and building the intricate little sets together. Watching the vast stretches of countryside roll by beyond his window had gradually put his mind at ease, and by the time they pulled into the Coast City train station it was as if he'd left Central City light years behind, like Harrison Wells and STAR Labs were in a completely different world, one he no longer lived in.

After checking in at the modestly priced hotel, they'd changed out of their traveling clothes and into lighter, more touristy attire, and hit the pier. They walked, browsed stalls, joked and laughed just as they used to when they were dating. They had ate a late seafood lunch/early dinner on the patio of a lovely local restaurant, and finished their day by walking down to the ocean with two ice cream cones and watching the sunset, the sky rose and gold while the streaks of clouds were violet trimmed in navy. Barry wished, not for the first time, that he had some sort of artistic talent. If only he could have captured the glittering of the waves in a painting, or written poetry about the way Iris' hair was blown into her face. At times like these Barry felt such beauty was wasted on him and his scientific mind, that couldn't capture colors worth a damn but could explain the process of refraction through the ozone layer that caused the sunset's hues. _Oh well_ , Barry thought with a contented shrug as he offered Iris his arm to help her trudge back up the sloping sand dunes to the walkway they'd left behind, her high-heels held aloft in one hand, laughing as Barry's shoes filled with sand.

It was dark by the time they made it back to their hotel room and Barry was so relaxed that he wondered what he had been so worried about. Things were still so easy between him and Iris. _Of course_ , Barry thought, unlocking their hotel door. _Because we still love each other_. It was so simple. He felt foolish for having made it so labyrinthine within his mind.

"That was fun," Barry announced, tossing the hotel key onto the little table by the door and sliding his jacket off to hang on the coat-hook. "I'd forgotten how much I loved the ocean breeze. I was thinking we could go out to that little bar we passed - the one with the mermaid on the sign? - and grab a nightcap before-"

Iris pushed him back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind from him, her thin but curiously strong arms snaking around his waist. "Or," she purred, pushing up on her toes. "I could just grab _you_."

Barry choked, his heart suddenly racing for all the wrong reasons. "Iris, I-"

She kissed him, her lips too soft, her skin too smooth, her smell too sweet, lilacs and lavender instead of leather and spice. _Focus, Barry_ , he chided himself. He forced himself to close his eyes, to wrap her up in his arms, pull her against him, but it felt all wrong. It felt the way it had felt a hundred times before but it was suddenly different, off. He took hold of her slight shoulders and gently pried her off of him.

"Darling," he smiled, as sweetly as he could manage. "It's still too early - there's so much to do - why don't we change into our evening clothes and-"

Iris lifted her blouse over her head and cast it aside, revealing her lacy bra and becoming curves, then immediately began unbuckling Barry's belt.

"Whoa-wh-what are you doing-" Barry stammered.

"Trying to give my dreamboat husband a blowjob," she smirked, planting a sultry kiss just beside his mouth. "What does it look I'm doing?"

"Iris - Iris, wait -" He tried to grasp her shoulders but touching her naked skin sent coursing waves of nauseous guilt into his stomach and up his throat, remembering how he'd touched Harrison, remembering how Harrison had touched _him_. He couldn't do this right now. He needed more time. That's all he needed - more time. More time with Iris, just remembering how to be together. This was too fast, he couldn't - he - Iris pushed her delicate little hand past his waistband, into his shorts, and grabbed him. "I said _wait_!" He shoved her away so hard she stumbled and fell onto the hotel's queen sized bed.

They both stared at each other for what felt like a veritable eternity, the two of them breathing hard, Barry's eyes panicked, his hands shaking, and Iris looking up at him with round, shocked brown eyes, a lock of her hair fallen into her open mouth. And then the eternity was over, and Iris was on her feet. She slapped him hard on the shoulder - she really was ridiculously strong.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" She yelled.

"I'm so sorry, Iris!" Barry pleaded, his hands together as if in prayer. "I didn't mean to, I just - I just - I - I can't right now!"

"You can't _what_? Make love to your own wife?" She shook her head in disbelief, hands angrily on her hips. "What the hell has been going on with you these past weeks, Barry?"

"W-what?" Barry's heart nearly leapt out of his throat. "What do you mean? Nothing's been going on with me. Nothing at all."

"I'm not dense, _Barry_. I'm a detective, for Christ's sake. You don't think I can tell when my own husband can barely stand to look at me, let alone touch me?" Oh God. Had he been that obvious? "Do you know how long it's been since we've had sex? _Two months_. Are you aware of that? Has that registered at all with you? The first month, I thought 'We've both been overworked, we come home tired, it makes sense'. But the _second_ month? No, Barry. This is just - it's completely unlike you! And I don't just mean the sex. You have been distant, and _cold_ , and I look at you and it's like you're a million miles away. If there is something going on with you, Barry, I need to know. I am your _wife_. You should be able to tell me anything. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, darling, I just - it's - I can't -" He floundered. "There's nothing going on with me, you have to believe me!"

"You know what?" She leveled him with a hard stare. "I wish I could. But this, this person," she gestured at the whole of him. "This is not the man I married."

She plucked her blouse off the floor and pulled it on over head, picking up her purse and throwing open the door.

"Whoa, hey, Iris," Barry started, reaching for her. "Where are you going?"

Her gaze was ice cold when she turned to look at him. "I'm checking into another room. When the man _I married_ is ready to talk to _his wife_ about whatever the hell is going on with him," a hint of sadness crept into her face. "Then he'll know where to find me." And she shut the door behind herself with a hollow bang that reverberated in Barry Allen's ribcage.

* * *

 **A/N:** So that was grueling! Sorry, Iris, I'm sorry! Barry doesn't emotions well haha. I told you all I was going to ruing Iris' life. I hope everyone was able to handle the feels. There were a lot of them.

It's my total headcanon that Eobard!Wells and Hartley were an item at some point, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to make that part of E2 Well's back story. I personally think Hartley is super fabulous and isn't in the show nearly enough.

Here's a secret: I don't actually like Jesse at all in the show. I think she's whiny and mercurial and maudlin and all around just the worst. She's better this season, but not by a lot. However. I immensely enjoyed writing her. Something about her "holier than thou" attitude made it incredibly easy and fluid to write an argument with her. As a writer it's also my job to understand my characters' motivations, so I completely understand where she's coming from, but obviously she's going about it the wrong way, because she's the worst.

I hope everyone was okay with smut taking a leave of absence for this chapter. For those of you who really like the sexy time, it'll be back soon, so don't despair!

Thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting and kudosing and subscribing and bookmarking - you're all amazing and I love each and every one of you. I hope you've been enjoying the story thus far and will stick around to see where it goes. Next Saturday, Wells recalls some of his past and there's a security breach at the Labs.


	5. Crazy He Calls Me

**Part 5: Crazy He Calls Me**

Harrison Wells was leaning out of his opened office window, smoking a cigarette (a terrible habit he'd given up years ago but was wont to indulge in from time to time when he was at his lowest) and sipping a decent cognac, watching as the sun disappeared under the city skyline.

After Barry had left his house on Saturday, Harrison had spent the day trying Jesse's phone, only for his calls to go directly to voicemail. He'd become steadily more agitated as the day had progressed. When he'd begun to wonder if he should call the police to report his daughter missing, his phone had rung, making him jump three feet in the air.

"Jesse?" He'd answered desperately.

"No, Dr. Wells," the clipped British voice came over the line. "It's Gideon. Is this a bad time, sir?"

"No, Gideon." Wells had massaged his temples. "It's fine. What's the matter?"

"It's Dr. Barry Allen, sir."

Wells' stomach fell through the floor. "Barry? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, sir, as far as I know," her tone had held an edge of vexation. "He rang earlier today, said he wanted to take a long weekend, that he would be back in the office on Wednesday. Before I approved his request I wanted to double check with you."

Wells had sighed through his nose. "Of course, Gideon. That's fine. Tell him -" He shook his head at his empty living room. "If he calls back, tell him he can take all the time he needs. I understand."

A hesitation on the other end of the line. "Is he… alright, Dr. Wells?"

"Yes, he's… just going through some - personal - matters. Thank you for informing me, Gideon."

"Of course, Dr. Wells."

"Oh, and Gideon?"

"Yes, sir?"

"It's the weekend, go home, get some rest."

"But, sir-"

"I'll see you on Monday, Gideon."

A light, elegant laugh. "Yes, sir. Have a good evening."

After cleaning up the kitchen at long last (for lack of anything better to do), Wells had spent the rest of the evening perched on the edge of the living room sofa, deep in thought, cold cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Of course Barry wanted some time away. He needed to come to terms with the idea that they'd no longer be seeing each other - not that a few sexual encounters could necessarily be termed "seeing each other". Barry had made an informed, responsible, adult decision. He had considered the evidence, weighed the facts, everything that was at stake, and he had come to the decision that it was prudent to terminate their relationship now rather than prolong it and risk both of their reputations and, indeed, lives. It was the decision Wells had been unable to make himself. Because he was too… too… _hung up_ on Barry Allen. He'd known the right course of action and he had ignored it, time and time again, in favor of getting himself in deeper, giving himself less ability to escape from all this unharmed.

Eventually, long after night had settled in, the front door had opened. Wells had run to the foyer to find his daughter, tearful but unharmed. He'd hugged her then, held her little body to his chest, kissed her hair, told her how profoundly sorry he was. And she had clung to him just as tightly, told him she hadn't meant what she'd said, that she'd been scared, after what had happened with Hartley, but that she loved him and she _did_ want him to be happy, and she was sorry for having been so unkind, for saying such terrible things, and that if he thought this "Barry" guy could make him happy, then he had her blessing - even if it wasn't really any of her business, she'd laughed. Wells had thanked her for being supportive but that things were over between him and Barry. She had asked if he'd ended things between them because of her, and he'd assured her that wasn't the case - that Barry had made the choice, and that Wells cared about him enough to respect that.

"I guess you must really care about him," Jesse had said, surprised.

"I-" Wells had been about to deny it but for some reason the words had caught in his throat. Instead he said, "It doesn't matter. There are other things to consider. It's… complicated."

"Of course it's complicated, Dad." She had rolled her eyes, still red from crying, and smiled. "You're his boss, he's half your age, your both _guys_ \- being together was always going to be complicated. But remember what you always tell me when I'm trying to solve a problem I can't wrap my head around? ' _It's only complicated, Jesse Quick,_ -'"

"' _When you don't know the answer'_ ," he finished for her, then chuckled at the absurdity of having his own advice echoed back to him from his daughter.

"And I think you might already know the answer." The corner of her lips tugged up in a knowing smirk.

He pulled her back into his arms and kissed the top of her head. "How did you get to be so smart?"

"I guess I just take after my Dad," she said into his sweater.

But Wells hadn't really believed his daughter. When it came to Harrison Wells, there were no simple answers. Happiness was not something that came easily to him, and he had long since become resigned to the fact that he would not find happiness with another person, not romantically, anyhow. Hartley had been an accident, one in a long line of conquests that had, against all odds, turned into something more.

Wells had often tried to keep his affairs away from the Labs, but it hadn't been easy. Hardly anyone was more well known in Central City than Harrison Wells, it wasn't as if he could cruise a bar or pick up a boy on the rough side of town. Whenever he was out of town for a lecture or a conference or an expo, he would don a hat and sunglasses and duck into a seedy bar full of men, boys, like him, find one who was eager and had daddy issues, and take them back to his hotel for a single night of physicality, no strings attached. For those he'd had a particularly memorable evening with, he may have seen once or twice more, when he was in town again, but never more than that. Time and again, however, when he saw the opportunity to take advantage of one of his employees, he took it gladly.

Wells didn't know what it was that he so loved in these young scientists he seduced and took to his bed. Something about their bright young faces, their careers still ahead of them, so full of promise, possibilities, so much like he had once been. And, once he'd broken down their defences, they were always so eager to please, so in awe of him, the great Harrison Wells. There hadn't been _many_ boys, but there hadn't been few. It always started the same: the kissing, the groping, then his young charge would panic, terrified of their feelings, of being turned on by another man. They weren't gay - or at least many of them hadn't been - but that hadn't meant they were entirely straight either, and even a man who has never found his eyes wandering towards another man can be aroused by certain, let's say, physical stimuli. Then Wells would always assuage their doubts, their fears, by telling them it was normal, that he'd done the same with his own mentor when he was a young physicist, still learning the ropes. He'd wear them down, telling them how bright they were, how far they would go, and, of course, how no one would ever find out. He'd have sex with them once, twice, certainly no more than four times total. And then he'd reassign them, promote them out of the labs, recommend them for a better position at a friend's company, or, on one occasion, the young man quit and Wells had transferred a quarter of a million dollars to their bank account as "severance pay". What had happened with Hartley had been an anomaly. And he had learned his lesson. Or had thought he had. Until Barry Allen.

Barry Allen. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen. He should be grateful to him, really. He'd made the decision for him. And it was around the time he was usually done with them, after bringing them to bed, his body sated, ready to be put back on ice until he just couldn't stand it anymore and the entire process started all over again. But this was different. Different from Hartley, even. When he closed his eyes he saw Barry Allen's sleeping face, angelic against his pillows. When he opened his eyes again his heart would ache, a real, physical pain, knowing he wouldn't get to hold him again, listen to him prattle, all excitable and fidgety, wouldn't get to catch him staring at him during a company meeting, wouldn't get to kiss him until he whimpered. But what would he have done if Barry hadn't ended it? Would he have kept up a secret affair with him, hoping Barry wouldn't have the same notions as Hartley? Would he have kept Barry hidden in the shadows while he put up a front to the world, of a grieving widower who never got over the death of his wife? Is that what the rest of his life was going to be? Hiding in plain sight because he was too afraid of what the world would think? Is that really the kind of man he wanted to be?

It was pointless to think about now. Barry had gone back to his wife. He'd made the right decision. And Wells was going to have to learn to live with that. He was going to have to forget the way Barry tasted, the way he smelled, the gentle curve of his body against his dark sheets, the sparkle in his grey-green eyes when he'd looked up at Wells and told him he wanted him. Somehow, Wells was going to have to go back to a life without Barry Allen - as impossible as that seemed.

Wells chucked his cigarette butt out into the bustling city streets below, then closed the window against the whipping wind. He was just about to pour himself another finger of cognac (he didn't feel like going home just yet) when his computer beeped warningly at him. He swiped the monitor to life and saw that a motion detector in one of the labs had triggered the intruder alert. In the theoretical particle physics wing.

Wells should be calling the police, or at the very least informing security. But for some reason he was feeling reckless, and, against all logic, he keyed in his code to turn off the alarm, pulled his revolver out of the back of his desk, and left for the seventh floor.

Before he'd even rounded the corner, the sound of breaking glass and impacting objects reached his ears. He cocked his gun - always kept loaded - and jogged through the open door of lab 7C. He stopped short just inside.

Barry Allen. Pulling books off of shelves, throwing beakers and test tubes against the walls, onto the floor. He was also more of a mess than Wells had ever seen him. His face was red and tear-streaked, glasses crooked, his usually neatly combed hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar, no bow-tie anywhere to be seen - his shirt was even _untucked_.

Even as Wells watched him Barry launched a beaker full of a pinkish fluid against the whiteboard.

"Barry!" Wells called out. The deranged scientist didn't even flinch, just walked up to the whiteboard and began erasing the lengthy formula written across it in green marker with his shirt sleeves.

Wells uncocked his revolver and laid it down on a desk, striding over to the young man."Hey! Barry!"

"It's wrong!" Barry cried, furiously wiping away numbers. "It's all wrong!"

"Hey, hey -" Wells grabbed him by the shoulders, tried to pull him into his arms, but Barry resisted, kept trying to get to get back to the board, and, when that failed, tried to grab something else to throw.

"It's all wrong!" He kept crying. "How could I be so stupid!"

"That's enough, Barry! Enough!" Wells shook him forcefully, making the young man look at him. And when he did he broke down in sobs. Big, hiccuping, inelegant sobs. He fisted his hands in Wells' jacket, curling and uncurling his long fingers futily. He was such a pitiful sight it made Wells' chest ache.

"The formula - it's - all wrong -" He bawled, unable to catch his breath. "I - I worked - so hard - for so long - and it's - all wrong - I'm so stupid - I had - everyone fooled - I made - everyone think - it would work - but it won't - how could I - be so blind - how could it - have been so wrong - for so long - and I never saw it? How could I - have never seen it -"

Wells knew he wasn't talking about his formula for the destabilization syphon - not really. He sighed heavily. There could only be one reason Barry was here, this distraught, at this hour of the night. "Where's your wife, Barry?"

"You bastard!" He screeched suddenly. Wells was so surprised by his first punch that he let it push him backwards, despite not carrying very much force. The rest though, he stood strong and still as a brick wall, letting Barry vent his frustration, accepting the much deserved pounding of Barry's exhausted fists to his chest.

"Why!" He cried. "Why do I want you more than her!" His punches were losing what little strength they'd had. "Why!"

This time when Wells scooped Barry Allen into his arms, Barry didn't resist. He hid his face in Wells' chest and sobbed. Wells let him. He cradled the boy's head, carded his fingers through his thick hair, swayed him back and forth, whispered "Shhhh" in his ear. Eventually, his crying subsided, and Wells heard him sniffle before mumbling something.

"What?" He asked him softly.

"I had everything," Barry mumbled a little more clearly. He picked his head off Wells' chest and wiped at his face with the back of his marker-stained sleeves, picking his glasses off his nose to clean them with his shirttails. "I had everything. My life... was perfect." He shrugged, defeated.

"So was mine."

Barry looked up at him, really seeing him for the first time that night.

Wells continued, unable to stop himself, needing someone to hear, needing _Barry_ , of all people, to hear. "My life was perfect too. I was young, brilliant -" He laughed. "- handsome. I had my entire career ahead of me. And the rumor was that I was being considered by one of the top technological institutes in the country. But there was something holding them back from making the decision. And that was my love life." He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Things are better now - far better - than they were back when I was fresh out of college. People were far less understanding about my - hm, kind. If they had known what I was, my career would have been over before it had even begun. And there had been far too many rumors circulating, about the fact that I'd never had a girlfriend, had never even shown interest in women. I knew I had to do something, to take the focus off of my sexuality, so I found a young woman - a friend, a fellow scientist - who was the same as me, except, of course, towards other women - and, for the sake of both our careers, we decided to get married - to _pretend_. Well, it certainly did the trick. I was hired, she was hired, we moved up within our respective companies, our professional lives flourished while we kept our 'private' lives hidden, from everyone, even each other. Pressures began to mount, rumours circulating anew, about the validity of our marriage, so we had a child. A daughter. My… little Jesse."

He paused a moment, to collect himself. "We had her because we thought we had to, but neither of us expected to love her as much as we did. She… became my reason, for living. I thought of myself, my - needs - even less than I had before, to ensure that my reputation couldn't tarnish her. After my wife died that… became harder. People tended to not spread gossip about a grieving widower but the more time passed the more tenuous my position became. A rumor, any rumor, couldn't be so easily dispersed, not without a wife to back up my claims. So I tried - God," he laughed bitterly. "Did I try. To stifle my urges. I used to ask 'why'. I would wake up, look at myself in the mirror, and ask 'why'. 'Why am I like this?' I used to think it was a curse, that is was some kind of divine punishment. Or a balance. As if God looked at me and thought 'No, I've given him too much: good looks, a genius level IQ, a loving family - that's more than any one man deserves.' And then he gave me - this."

He threw his head back, laughing humorlessly up at the ceiling. "Not that I believe in a God. Certainly not one who would make it impossible for me to be with a person I love. So yes. I used to think it was a curse. I thought it as early as this morning, Barry, but do you know what I've just realized?" He looked at the boy, his red-rimmed eyes huge and sparkling. Barry shook his head minutely. "I've realized it's not a curse at all. It's a miracle. And that's because it brought me to you. And knowing you, making love to you, have been some of the _greatest_ moments of my life - and I wouldn't trade that for the world."

Fresh tears rolled down Barry's cheeks and he wiped them hastily away.

"I know it feels like your world has just ended," Harrison continued, voice firm but reassuring. "But you don't have to think of what you are as a curse, Barry. Don't waste the kind of time I've wasted, berating myself, wishing I was something I'll never be. Learn to _embrace_ it-"

"But," Barry interrupted, frowning. Harrison's words had been resonating with him, he'd understood what he was saying, connected with it, until now. It just didn't sit right with him. He was attracted to Harrison, yes, and in more ways than the purely physical, but he had been attracted to women, not just Iris, and yes not many, but at least a handful of others. "I'm not - I'm not gay."

Harrison sighed, a tad testily, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not," Barry maintained, bristling a little under Harrison's disbelief. "I loved my wife. I really did. Before - before - all of this - I really was in love with her."

"Were you?" Harrison asked. "Or did you just think you were _supposed_ to love her?"

Barry hesitated. Iris had always been in his life, in one way or another. They had been neighbors growing up, best friends in school. They had been thick as thieves. As they'd grown older they'd only grown closer together. He had always identified the feeling as love. When they were old enough, it seemed natural for them to date, and even more natural to become engaged, to marry. He'd never questioned it. But could Harrison be right? Had he just done what was expected of him? Had he taken feelings of love and made himself think he was _in_ love? Is that why he felt this way now, for Harrison? Why these feelings were so deep and raw? Was this what being in love was supposed to feel like? Because if it was, he had never been in love with Iris, not with anyone. Not truly.

"You don't," Harrison interrupted his reverie, raising a hand. "Have to answer now. Barry, you -" He broke off, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head at the floor. He exhaled, relaxed and leveled his icy blue eyes at Barry, his gaze intense enough to make his knees tremble. "You said that you understood what I did, because you're that same kind of man. I don't think that's true. I think - you are an extraordinary man, Barry. And the man I am - was - I don't want to be that man anymore."

Barry's heart stopped. He couldn't be… he couldn't be saying what Barry thought he was saying… Could he? "Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean that I am sick and _tired_ of being a coward. I have been this - this -" He struggled to find the word and only ended up gesturing vaguely at himself. "I have been like this for - at the risk of highlighting our vast differences in age - since before you were born. And I am _tired_ of hiding, of living in the shadows, of denying myself the ability to be happy. Barry." He cupped Barry's face in his hands, calloused fingers stroking his cheeks tenderly, unreal eyes boring into Barry's own, searching. "If you choose to - If you give me a chance, to be with you, I _promise_ you that you will not be a dirty secret, you will not be kept in the shadows like something shameful. I will not hide anymore, and I won't hide you. Because you, Barry Allen, are worth so much more than that. You are not someone to be concealed, to be shuttered away. You are a man who should be treasured, cherished. That is what I want, Barry, to cherish you. But, if you chose to…" His hands fell away from Barry's face, leaving his skin cold, but his gaze didn't waver. "Not pursue this, _us_ , I promise to respect that decision, because you matter to me, Barry. More than I thought possible. And I need you to know that, no matter what happens, now or in the future, I will _never_ treat you the way I treated Hartley. No matter what happens between us, your position here is secure. You, Barry, will _always_ have a place here at STAR Labs. Unless," the corner of his mouth quirked in the beginnings of one of his wry smirks. "Of course, you somehow manage to burn down the Labs, at which point I might have to reconsider your position."

Barry laughed wetly through his tears. He wiped at his face, sniffled. "What if I just break a few things?"

Harrison chuckled, icy blue eyes warming. "I think we can manage a few broken test tubes."

Barry felt his smile slip as he considered his answer to the question Harrison never actually asked. It wasn't a hard decision to make. After all, Barry thought, the decision had practically been made for him. "Harrison," he started, voice still ragged from his weeping.

The sadness that appeared just behind Harrison's sparkling eyes filled Barry with agonizing empathy. To think of everything Harrison had been through, all he'd given up, the terrible heartbreak he had suffered, how he was so shell-shocked that his instinct told him Barry was about to reject him. It made Barry want to reach out and hold him. He'd never thought he would be in a position to want to comfort the great Dr. Harrison Wells. The fact that he was more vulnerable than Barry could have ever imagined made the choice he was about to make that much clearer.

"Barry Allen," Harrison replied tightly.

Words seemed to fail Barry then. There was nothing he could say that would convey the way he was feeling - or at least not to his satisfaction. He rued again that he hadn't been born a poet. There were sonnets he wished he could write, ballads he wished he could compose. No words he could come up with now would ever do justice the depth of emotion that surged inside him, that had compelled him to seek Harrison out at his home, that had propelled him out of his house tonight, so unbearably quiet without Iris in it, to destroy the only thing left in his life that had any meaning. No. Barry Allen the theoretical particle physicist didn't possess the words to explain to Harrison what he wanted to say. So he communicated his decision the only way he knew how.

Barry wrapped his arms around Harrison's narrow shoulders and kissed him. It was the first time he'd ever initiated a kiss between them, and he approached it awkwardly, uncertain, and at first Harrison's lips were stunned against his, tasting of cigarettes and Scotch. But it was perfect. It was everything kissing Iris wasn't. They fit together in all the right places, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle, his cheek coarse against his own, his smell wood and leather, body tall, firm, immovable. It made him dizzy, weak at the knees. It left his skin tingling, his hands trembling, his lips on fire where they touched Harrison's. Any lingering doubt he may yet have had in his mind evaporated along with the air that rushed out of his lungs in a long contented sigh. This was the person he was meant to be with.

Soon Harrison's arms slid around his waist, his mouth opening to welcome Barry's tongue. Barry ran his fingers through Harrison's soft, thick black curls, whined when Harrison bit his lip the way he so often did. He'd only wanted the kiss to be his answer, an expression of unwavering decision to choose him over Iris, but the kiss was turning heated, needy, Harrison's hands finding their way under his shirt and onto his skin, roaming, raking his blunt nails over Barry's ribs until he gasped.

Barry pulled away to regain his breath and Harrison used the opportunity to kiss his jaw, his ear, his neck, slowly backing him up until Barry's ass hit the metal desk.

" _Harrison_ ," he breathed, wanting it to sound like a reprimand but ended up somehow sounding like pleading. Harrison just hummed against his skin, sucking a fresh bruise onto his throat. Barry hissed, fingers digging into the soft fabric of Harrison's jacket. His eyes trailed to the still open door of the lab. "What if someone comes in?"

"Let them," he growled, hands falling to Barry's belt buckle, unlatching it with deft fingers.

"H-Harrison, wait-" Barry stuttered. "We shouldn't-" But his protests morphed into a high-pitched yelp when Harrison slid his hand past the waistband of his shorts and gripped his hardening cock. He started pumping him, jerking him into full hardness, while he smoothed his tongue over the bruise he'd made before sinking his teeth back into Barry's flesh.

"Haaah -" Barry moaned, head careening to the side to expose his neck to Harrison, his hips rocking up into Harrison's hand.

"Tell me what you want," Harrison's low voice rasped in his ear.

"I want you," Barry's cracked voice responded, long since past the boundary of shyness.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

God, his hand was… doing such amazing things… Barry could hardly think straight. But he knew what he wanted. The only thing he'd wanted since Harrison had first kissed him. Barry's voice was quivering and reedy when he said, "I want you to fuck me."

Harrison spun him around so fast, pushed him against the desk so hard, that Barry knew the metal edge was going to leave bruises against his hip bones. The older man grabbed the hair at the back of his head roughly and shoved him down onto the desk, bending him over and nearly knocking the glasses off his face. Barry's head was still spinning when he felt his pants and underwear being yanked down to his ankles. He could feel his heart thundering in chest. They'd already done this once before but his stomach still tightened with apprehension. The pain the first time had been nearly unbearable. He hoped it might be easier this time, that he might've been made looser by their previous encounter, the agony of which had only been made bearable by the blinding pleasure that had followed. Despite his anxiety, he was calmed in the knowledge that no matter what kind of pain Harrison inflicted upon him the other man would be given pleasure, and that was more than enough for Barry.

"Shit," he heard Harrison curse behind him. "I don't have a condom."

Barry craned his neck to look at him over his shoulder. "That's ok. I trust you."

"You shouldn't." Harrison's eyes and voice were hard. "You should never trust anyone when it comes to that. You understand?"

"Yes - " Barry barely stopped himself from saying "sir" at the end, an automatic response to his authoritative mien. He rested his cheek against the cool metal, his glasses pushing up and digging into his forehead, watching the older man, taking in his kiss-reddened lips, his sharp jaw, the definition of his firm chest under his white shirt. His stomach fluttered, thinking that this man, this incredible man, this man he'd looked up to since he was a boy, wanted _him_. His voice was hushed when he said, "You're not just anyone though."

Harrison bent over him and captured his mouth. Barry was surprised by the tenderness of the kiss, and by the fond caress the physicist stroked across his cheek.

When he pulled back his face had softened. "You have my word that I'm clean, but never again. Understand?"

"Yes," Barry nodded, his cheek scrubbing against the desk.

Harrison ran his knuckles against Barry's jaw one more time and said under his breath, almost absently, "Such a beautiful boy."

He kissed the back of Barry's neck, rucked up his shirt and sweater to kiss his lower back, the curve of his ass, sending a shiver up Barry's spine. He spread Barry's thighs apart and Barry gasped when he felt the hot wetness of Harrison's tongue dart out over his entrance. His tongue circled and pressed, teasing, licking over and over again until Barry's knees shook and his cock throbbed against the icy metal desk, shameless, keening whimpers escaping his lips. Barry was just about to complain that if he didn't _do_ something he was going to lose his mind, when that velvet tongue pushed inside him, flicking and swirling and _dear God_ -

"Haaa - haah - !" Barry cried out, his hips rocking back onto Harrison's mouth, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk. Harrison's tongue darted in and out of him, lapping at his insides, sucking his hole, until Barry felt an extra pressure and knew his finger was inside him too, spreading him. He felt his tongue withdraw to be replaced by another finger, thrusting slickly into him, scissoring him open. More pressure, stretching him impossibly wide, making him burn, almost too painful until Harrison crooked his fingers and pressed against that spot, the one that made Barry's vision blur, the one that made him cry out, that sent sharp spikes of pleasure coursing through his belly and shooting into his dick, making it pulse and leak.

"Aaahh - _God_ \- Ha-Harrison - _yeah_ -" He whined wantonly, pelvis rolling in time with the jabs of the other man's fingers. "Th-there - that's - that's so good -" He reached under the desk to take his weeping cock into his fist, stroking himself, needing to be touched.

All too quickly Harrison's fingers were gone. Barry twisted his head around and watched as the older man hastily undid his belt, his fly, and pulled his swollen erection out of his briefs. He spat thickly and wetly into his hand, coated his dick in saliva and grabbed Barry's hips bruisingly hard, his clear blue eyes clouded with dark, hungry lust.

Barry felt the head of Harrison's cock against him and braced himself, knuckles whitening on the edge of the desk. Then suddenly there was a resounding smack against Barry's ass that made him cry out, both in surprise and shock at just how _good_ the sudden spike of pain had felt. Before he had even recovered Harrison was pushing inside him, his huge cock opening him to the point where he felt he was going to split in two, gritting his teeth against the burning pain. Harrison was going slowly this time, slower than he had the last, which both gave Barry more time to adjust and made the process positively torturous.

Harrison leaned over him, breath hot on Barry's neck. His voice was trembling when he ground out, "Relax."

Barry exhaled noisily through his nose, eyes squeezed shut as he focused on loosening his body, unclenching his muscles.

"I said _relax_ ," Harrison growled and Barry heard the slap before he felt it, white hot on his ass, the same spot Harrison had attacked before, and Barry was taken aback by the guttural moan that forced its way out of his throat, the way his entire body spasmed in pleasure from the brief surge of pain.

" _Fuck_ \- Barry -" Harrison groaned, nails digging into Barry's hips to keep himself from thrusting into him. Instead he kept control, slid slowly, excruciatingly slowly, into him until his hips were flush with Barry's ass.

Both of them were breathing ragged, panting. The feeling of being filled was nearly overwhelming. Barry could feel him inside of him, heavy and thick, his muscles contracting around Harrison's cock. He needed to move. He needed to - His hips bucked of their own accord, pulling off and back onto Harrison's dick, making them both moan.

" _Jesus_ Christ - Barry -" Harrison lost his tenuous hold on his self control and his hips began snapping against him, balls slapping against Barry's ass with a wet, fleshy sound. Then he gripped Barry's hips and angled his thrusts downward and Barry nearly blacked out.

"Gaaaahhh aaahhh - fuck - _fuck_ \- Harrison - th-there - fuck - _there_ -"

Harrison thrust into him brutally, over and over, unrelenting, faster and faster, until he was barely pulling out of him at all, just rutting shallowly against his prostate, one hand fisted in the back of Barry's sweater, the other reaching down, under the desk, to grip Barry's cock and pump him in time with his thrusts.

"G- God - Ha- Harrison - I'm gonna - Christ - I'm -" Barry's body tensed as he felt the mounting pleasure tighten in his gut, in his balls, Harrison's rapidly moving hand pushing him over the edge.

"Fuck - yeah - Barry -" Harrison panted in his ear, his voice hoarse with lust, broken by his thrusts. "Come - for me - _fuck_ \- come for me - Barry -"

Harrison's hips started losing their rhythm, turning into jerky little rolling movements. Barry pushed back against him, back onto his cock, forward into his hand, so close, so close to coming.

"Ha-harder -" Barry begged, his voice almost unrecognizable to his own ears it was so high and needy. "Fuck me - harder -"

" _Shit_ -" The moan that came from Harrison was like nothing he'd heard from the man before. It was animalistic and raw. And then Harrison was slamming into him, hitting his prostate hard enough to make Barry see stars, so hard he could feel the bite of Harrison's hip bones where they crashed against his ass.

"Fuuuu- fuck - haaaah aaah ahh - " Barry's cries broke off into whimpering sobs and three, four more thrusts and he was coming, his orgasm exploding in Harrison's fist, shooting onto the underside of the desk, onto the floor. It wracked his body, tearing through him to the point of blacking out, body convulsing under Harrison as the man stilled, cried out, and Barry felt the hot jets of ejaculation fill him, pulsing inside him almost endlessly, until Harrison collapsed on top of him with a groan.

Barry wasn't sure how long they lay there for, him with his cheek against the cold metal of the desk, glasses nearly pushed entirely off his face, Harrison resting his full weight on Barry's back, both of them panting as though they might never catch their breaths again. Slowly Barry's vision began to clear, his heart rate returning to a normal pace, and he unhinged his fingers from the edge of the desk, grooves bitten into his flesh from the death-hold he'd had on it. He stretched out his stiff digits, wringing life back into them. He reached behind himself to pat Harrison awkwardly on the side. He loved having the man pressed against him, but he was surprisingly heavy for someone so lean and it was getting hard to breathe.

Harrison grunted, apparently still very much in a daze, and didn't move until Barry rolled his hips under him, making the other man groan from overstimulation. He straightened, cock slipping out of Barry with a burn that made him wince. Barry could hear the clinking of metal as he buckled his belt, felt Harrison slide Barry's pants back up, tuck him back inside his underwear. He lifted Barry up by his waist and turned him around. Barry could barely stand on his watery legs. He stared up at Harrison dreamily as the man straightened his glasses, combed his hair with his fingers, smoothed it down. How could one man be so impossibly handsome? All hard lines, piercing blue eyes, and defined lips. He always seemed so poised, with just a hint of danger under his skin, like a black cat ready to pounce. Barry couldn't believe he was with this man. This amazing man.

Harrison's face was soft as he watched him. He ran a thumb over Barry's cheek and Barry sagged, the last ounces of his strength giving way beneath him, and the older man just barely caught him in time. He was so exhausted suddenly. He felt like he could fall asleep right here, in the labs, in Harrison's arms, sleep for a hundred hours and wake up in another century like Rip van Winkle. He heard the dulcet tones of Harrison's deep laugh. "Let's get you home, beautiful boy."

* * *

 **A/N:** They're back together! I'm sure you all saw that coming. I mean, surely I wouldn't be so cruel... or WOULD I? You never know!

I hope I didn't give anyone whiplash with that abrupt change in POV in the middle of a conversation. I didn't want to disrupt the flow of their conversation by breaking up the chapter like I usually do. I think it transitioned pretty fluidly. Tell me if you thought it was confusing.

Jesse came around. Because that's what she does. She says really unreasonable things, realizes she's being a huge B, then comes back with her tail between her legs all "I'm sorry". Have I mentioned how much I hate her character on the show?

Thanks so much to all of you who've been reading! To all of you who have reviews, who've favorited and subscribed to the story, you're all my heroes! To y'all who've been reading but not reviewing, jump on in! The water's fine! I'd love to hear from you, dedicated readers ;D

Stay tuned for chapter six next Saturday, when Harrison and Barry's newfound euphoria is cut abruptly short by brutal revenge.


	6. What a Diff'rence a Day Made

**Part 6: What a Diff'rence a Day Made**

Barry slept through most of the car ride. When Harrison shook his shoulder he was so out of it he couldn't even question how Harrison knew where he lived. The older man helped him to the front door, where Barry fumbled in his jacket pocket for a few minutes to find his keys. Barry stumbled in but Harrison hesitated on the threshold.

"You wife…" He started.

Barry sighed. "Is at her father's."

Harrison nodded sagely. "I see." But he made no move to enter.

Barry reached out and took his large hand in his own. He smiled shyly up at him. "Come inside?"

"I think I already have," he winked with an impish smirk and Barry's face instantly heated up. Harrison laughed easily. "I _would_ , however, like to come in."

Barry closed the door behind him, not bothering to lock it. Their neighborhood was safe enough. Harrison turned in place, sizing up his home. Barry rubbed the nape of his neck self-consciously. "I know it's not what you're used to but -"

"It's lovely," Harrison interrupted, turning his warm gaze and thoughtful smile on Barry. He closed the distance between them and held Barry's waist with strong hands. "If I were a younger man, I'd push you up against that wall and fuck you again, in every room of this house, but as it is I can hardly stay on my feet."

Barry laughed even as Harrison's words sent a little thrill of arousal into his gut. "Don't worry, it's not your age. I can barely stand either." He laid his arms loosely over the taller man's shoulders and kissed his lips modestly. He rested his forehead against Harrison's, breathing his air, and closed his eyes, feeling contentment settle around him like a warm blanket. He whispered, "Spend the night with me?"

"Always." Harrison kissed him, less chaste than Barry had.

Barry led Harrison up the stairs by the hand, down the hall into the bedroom. Barry's eyes settled immediately on a framed photograph of him and Iris on their wedding, sitting accusingly on the mantle above the bedroom fireplace. His stomach twinged uncomfortably, seeing their happy faces, on the day he had once believed had been the happiest of his life. He quickly slipped his hand out of Harrison's and crossed the room, turning the photograph face down, hoping the other man hadn't had time to see it. He turned around to find Harrison watching him with dark eyes. Barry conjured a smile, one of his biggest and brightest, to put him at ease, and it only took a second until it became genuine. It did the trick. Harrison sat down on the edge of the bed and patted his own thigh, expression mischievous.

Barry snorted at the roleplaying implications that came to mind but walked over to him all the same. Harrison scooped him into his arms and pulled him onto his lap, kissing him deeply, tongue exploring his mouth languidly, undemanding. Barry crossed his wrists behind Harrison's head, angling his face to allow Harrison better access. Harrison's hand tightened on his thigh, pulling him into a better position, and Barry felt the unmistakable nudge of Harrison's excitement against his ass.

Barry smiled against Harrison's lips and mumbled, "I thought you were too tired, _old man_."

"I got a second wind," Harrison said into his mouth. "And if you call me 'old man' again you're going to get yourself another spanking."

Barry shivered, remembering Harrison's firm hand slapping against his ass. "Only if you promise," he teased playfully, voice husky, and rolled his ass against Harrison's hardness, making the physicist moan and recapture his mouth in another impassioned embrace.

Harrison's hand snaked between his thighs and squeezed the growing bulge in Barry's trousers. Barry whimpered, all thoughts of falling asleep for a hundred years forgotten. His hips began rocking of their own volition, eliciting grunts from the man beneath him. Harrison bit his abused, swollen bottom lip, and-

"Oh my God."

Barry's head snapped up fast enough to make his head spin.

Iris.

Iris was standing in the open doorway, her hands over her mouth, eyes wide in shock.

"Iris," Barry gasped, chest too tight to breathe, body too stunned to move. H-how… She was supposed to be at her father's. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was wasn't supposed to see - to see - _this_ -

Iris turned on her heel and dashed down the hall.

"Iris!" Barry's paralysis disappeared and he sprung up, off of Harrison, like a shot, breaking into a run after his wife. "Iris, wait!"

He caught up to her at the top of the stairs and grabbed her arm. "Iris, please - " She shook herself violently out of his grasp. Her face was pure murderous rage, tears of anger and disappointment already falling from her anguished brown eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Barry!" She shouted and he cringed under her volatility. "I thought you might be having an affair but _this_ -" She threw a disgusted hand into the air, unable to bring herself to finish that sentence.

"I'm sorry, Iris - I'm so, so, _so_ sorry -" He pleaded, hands held out halfway between them, wanting to touch her, to comfort her, but knowing she'd only slap his hands away. "You weren't meant to find out like this - I'm _so_ sorry -"

But she wasn't listening, she seemed to be putting the pieces together for herself. "No wonder you've been spending so much time at the office. I thought it was strange - working weekends, working at night - this whole time, you were with _him_. Oh God." She covered her mouth again, aghast. "My whole marriage - my whole _life_ \- it's just been one big _lie_ -"

"No, no -" Barry couldn't help himself, he laid his hands on her shoulders. It was a small miracle she didn't shrug him off. "No, Iris, _no_. I love you, I always loved you, I just-"

"No, _Barry_." She shrugged his hands off then, stepping back, putting distance between them. "That's not how this works. You do not just wake up one day and say to yourself 'You know what I could really use? Another man's dick in my mouth!'"

"Jesus, Iris," Barry gaped. "Don't be crass!"

She laughed bitterly. The sound was pure acid in Barry's ears. "Oh, that's rich! You're the one who's fucking a _man_ and _I'm_ the one who's crass!" She slapped him hard on the arm. He flinched away from her. "How long, Barry? How long have you been sleeping with him?"

"I - I - I don't know," He stammered. "A couple of weeks, maybe? It just happened and he's - it's different - it's not -"

"Just a couple of _weeks_?" She stared at him incredulously. "But for _months_ you've been-" She cut herself off, realization dawning on her face like horror. She raised her hand to her mouth again, fresh tears breaking free from her eyelashes to roll down her bronze cheeks. "Oh God. You're in love with him."

Barry's mouth opened and shut with a click. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't be a lie. He couldn't even meet her gaze. His eyes just fell, in defeat, to the rug between them.

"You're in love with him," she repeated, with grim finality. "I-" She sniffled, wiped the tears from her cheeks. When Barry looked at her again she was eerily calm, though her tears continued to flow silently, condensing at her slender jaw line and dripping onto the rug in tiny rivulets. "I'm going to go back to my Dad's." The cold, clinical detachment of her voice was like a slap across Barry's face. "And when I get back I want you gone."

Barry nodded. It was all he could do. He didn't know why it felt as though his heart were breaking. He was in love with someone else. How could it still feel as though he were losing the most important person in his life?

"I hope -" Her words broke in her throat, betraying the detachment she had tried to cultivate. She paused, taking a second to compose herself, her lip trembling. Then she continued, voice strained with agony, "I hope he can make you happy - the way I couldn't."

She turned and started down the stairs.

"Iris - " Barry made a lunge towards her but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to find Harrison standing behind him, expression shuttered. He gave his head a single, terse shake.

Barry exhaled a shaky breath and sunk onto Harrison's chest, wrapping his arms around his back, eyes squeezed shut against his neck. Harrison held him, rubbing calming circles into his back, nuzzling his hair and making soft, soothing noises in his ear until he could breathe again, until the hurt passed, until the shame lifted, until he didn't hate himself for betraying the person he had loved most in the world. Some of it passed, some of it didn't. For those things that couldn't be fixed in a single night, from a single embrace from the person he was tossing away his marriage vows for, well, there would be plenty more nights, plenty more embraces. As many as it took to make him whole again. Now that they were together, they had all the time in the world.

* * *

"And you're sure this is - you're _certain_ you don't mind?"

"Barry," Wells stopped on the mat before his front door, keys in one hand, one of Barry's suitcases in the other, casting a long-suffering glance the young man's way. He'd had to listen to his protests on the entire drive over. And here he'd thought the boy had been tired. Apparently getting kicked out of the house by your wife for discovering your homosexual affair does wonders for curing exhaustion. "I told you you could stay with me. As long as you want - longer, even. Do I sound unsure to you?"

"Well," Barry shifted his suitcase from one hand to the other, his thick eyebrows pushed together in a cute frown. "No, but-"

"But nothing." He looped his finger through the keychain and placed a comforting hand on Barry's shoulder, softening his voice. "I _want_ you to stay with me."

Barry opened and closed his mouth, then smiled tentatively. He nodded. He didn't expect Barry to be effusive about the sudden living arrangements - the boy had been through more than his fair share of turmoil today. He was willing to be uncharacteristically patient with him.

Wells unlocked the door, closed it behind them, and began punching in the security code in the keypad beside the entrance. He heard the thud of Barry setting down his suitcase, heard the pop of Barry cracking his bones in a long stretch.

"Dad!" His daughter's voice called from the back of the house. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. For a man who usually considered all factors in an equation, he had made a startling oversight in not taking into account his daughter in his decision to let Barry stay with him.

"Dad! Where have you been! I called the office and they said you were-"

Jesse stopped short when she arrived at the foyer and caught sight of Barry, the suitcases. Her eyes darted from Wells, to Barry, and back again, a mixture of confusion and trepidation on her white, oval face.

Barry, God bless him, instantly lunged forward, hand extended. "Hi, I'm Barry - Barry Allen - Dr. Barry Allen - I - I - work - with your Dad - at STAR Labs - I'm a theoretical particle physicist - I don't know if he's talked about me at all - "

Jesse let him shake her hand, staring agog as Barry's mouth worked a mile a minute. Then she shut her mouth and her red lips twisted into the ghost of a smirk. "Ohhh. So _you_ 're the infamous 'Barry'." Her voice was all quiet amusement but Barry still blanched, dropping her hand and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Before the moment could become too awkward, Jesse added, amusement more apparent, "I can see why my Dad likes you." And to her father she added, with a wink, "He's cute."

Wells choked back a laugh while Barry sputtered. He tried to school the laughter out of his voice before he spoke. "Jesse, Barry's going to be staying with us - I'm not sure for how long. He, ah, doesn't have anywhere else to go. I hope that isn't too… " He trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Weird?" Jesse finished for him. Not the word Wells would have chosen, but apt nonetheless. "A little. But I'll get used to it." She turned a bright smile on Barry, who seemed momentarily floored. Wells beamed a little. She really was a remarkable girl. "Welcome to the Wells household, _Dr_. _Allen_ ," she said the formality as if it were a private joke and Barry grinned despite himself. "It was nice meeting you. Dad, I'm gonna go to bed."

"Sure thing, sweetie."

Jesse ducked into his arms for a quick hug and Wells kissed the top of her head. Before she left them, however, she stopped in front of the young man. "Oh, and Barry?"

Barry raised his eyebrows in response.

"If you hurt my Dad - I want you to know that one of my five majors is chemistry, and I know of ways to poison a man so that no one will ever find the body."

On that note, she sashayed away, mary-janes tapping against the foyer marble.

As soon as she was out of sight Barry exhaled a long breath he had probably been holding. "She is…"

"Terrifying?" Wells supplied.

"I was going to say 'just like you'." Barry turned his goofy grin on Wells and the older man couldn't help but laugh, even as he cuffed him lightly on the ear, Barry pouting exaggeratedly at him in response.

"Come on, _Dr. Allen_ ," Wells smirked, lifting Barry's bag from off the floor and hauling both suitcases down the hall. "I think there's another young genius in this house who needs to be put to bed."

* * *

Barry awoke to the sound of an alarm clock going off. Without opening his eyes, he groaned and stretched out an arm, trying to swat at the offending appliance, but was surprised to find his hand come in contact with something firm and warm. Then he heard a deep chuckle that raised the hair on his arms.

"And good morning to you too," he heard a raspy voice next to his ear.

Barry rolled over and blinked into the bright, warm sunlight streaming in through the unfamiliar window in the unfamiliar bedroom. When his eyes finally adjusted his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Harrison Wells, his unruly black hair sleep tousled, blue eyes sparkling in the golden light. He felt his face split into a dopey grin.

"Morning," he said, voice hoarse from sleep.

Harrison ran his knuckles along his jaw, over his morning stubble, in the way he seemed to love to do, smiling softly. "Morning, beautiful boy."

Barry smoothed his palm over the older man's naked chest, the hard expanses of muscle, savoring the way he looked, pliant and content, first thing in the morning. He let his eyes fall closed again, leaning in to Harrison's hand as the other man smoothed his hair off of his forehead. He wished he could lie like this forever.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, feeling himself slipping back into the warm embrace of sleep.

"Eight o'clock." Harrison's voice sounded dreamy, far away.

Barry groaned, burying his nose in the pillow that smelled like Harrison, sharp spices and leather. "I'm gonna be late for work."

"Somehow I don't think your boss is going to mind."

Barry cracked open an eye and giggled at Harrison's cheeky smirk. He groaned again and rolled onto his back. "Hewitt won't be pleased though. I really have to make into the labs today. There's far too much work to be done."

"Or." Harrison rolled on top of him, pinning him to the mattress with his body, and started kissing his neck. Barry could feel his intention pressing into his thigh. "We could stay in - " Kiss, bite. "- Have some breakfast -" Kiss, suck. Barry squirmed. "- Then spend the rest of the day -" Hard bite, making Barry gasp. " - in bed."

"As tempting as that sounds - " Barry groaned when Harrison sucked at that spot under his ear that sent shivers down his spine. And God, did it sound tempting. "I've already taken too much time away from the destabilization syphon, and Hewitt won't get anywhere with the recalibrations without me."

Harrison ceased his ministrations to groan loudly into the pillow by Barry's head. "Fine," he grumbled into the silken fabric. When he raised his head again he kissed Barry sweetly but swiftly on the lips. Barry was relieved to find him not as put out as he'd sounded. "Why did I have to fall for such a responsible genius physicist?"

"Better than an irresponsible idiot cyberneticist." He pinched the older man's cheek, making him wrinkle his nose in distaste, and Barry couldn't stop himself from laughing. He heaved Harrison heavily off of himself, grunting with effort, and climbed from the bed stiltedly, too much sleepiness still in his limbs. "And why are you so heavy? You need to ease up on those Big Belly Burgers, old man."

He received a sharp smack on the ass for his insolence.

It was so very domestic; brushing their teeth at the same time, shaving at the same time, helping Harrison's cufflinks into his shirtsleeves, Harrison helping to straighten Barry's bow-tie. It felt natural, easy, like they'd done this dance a thousand times, as though all the pieces had fallen into place. It reminded him with a pang of regret that it was not unlike his and Iris' routine, their lives merging so seamlessly together that, for all intents and purposes, it became one single cohesive life. He wondered how she was, if she was suffering. The happiness that settled in his bones when Harrison smoothed down his hair, the contentment that spread through him when he saw the tenderness in the man's arctic blue eyes, came accompanied by a sharp bite of guilt, that he should gain such happiness at the expense of his wife's. But then Harrison kissed him, stroked his cheek, and his worries sunk to the back of his mind, under a sea of honey-moon bliss, leaving his heart light and head in the clouds.

When they walked into the hall Barry could smell bacon cooking, hear the melodious tones of Billie Holiday drifting tinnily into the hallway, and he practically skipped into the kitchen. He was surprised to find Jesse behind the counter, sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates already adorned with bacon and toast, a pot of coffee sitting proudly on the island, the art-deco radio in the corner glowing warmly as it sang out plaintive jazz.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Harrison scolded without heat, sliding onto the stool tucked under the island counter.

Jesse rolled her blue eyes, so much like Harrison's, placing a plate in front of her father. "I don't have class until eleven today, Dad." She set the second plate to the right of him, a clear invitation for Barry. "Something you would know if you ever bothered to learn my schedule."

Barry pulled a stool out, the metal legs scraping against the tile, and sat, bringing the plate and fork closer to himself, taking the proffered napkin and spreading it neatly across his lap.

"Why," Harrison said from around a mouthful of eggs and toast. "Should I learn your schedule when my secretary already has it memorized? Seems rather redundant."

"And that," Jesse laughed, plating herself eggs. "Is why you are going to give Gideon that diamond bracelet we picked out for her birthday." She sat down across the island from them, gesturing at her father with a slice of bacon. "And a raise."

"We'll see about the raise - can I ask why we're receiving the five star treatment this morning?"

"What?" Jesse asked innocently, chewing. "I can't cook breakfast for my father?"

Harrison leveled her with a skeptical eye. "You never cook me breakfast."

Jesse swallowed down her bite of toast with a delicate sip of coffee before answering. "Alright, alright. So I wanted to make breakfast for my Dad _and_ his boyfriend. Is that such a crime?"

Barry choked on his (delicious) mouthful of eggs and bacon, coughing loudly, and grabbed for his coffee while his face heated up in embarrassment. It was clear that Jesse approved of their, ah, relationship, but it was still rather a shock to hear the word 'boyfriend' used so casually. Not that it wasn't something Barry would like to be, Harrison's boyfriend that is, but he'd never considered having a - a _boyfriend_ of his own. But he supposed that's what it was called when you slept with a man, stayed the night at his home, and ate breakfast with him with the intention of doing all of those things regularly. Boyfriends. It'd take some time to get used to that - but Barry could see himself coming to enjoy the moniker one day soon.

"Now look what you've done," Harrison chided playfully, pounding on Barry's back as he continued to try to rein in his coughing. "You broke him."

"Sorry." Though the girl didn't sound particularly sorry about it. "I thought he'd be made of stronger stuff since he's, you know, dating _you_."

Barry's coughing fit turned into coughing laughs and he looked up through teary eyes to see Jesse beaming at him. He liked this girl. She was for too much like her father for her own good, but that's what Barry liked about her. That and the scrumptious breakfast she'd made them. Barry could hardly believe that she'd made such a complete turnaround from the fight he'd overheard her have with Harrison, let alone that she'd come to accept him enough to cook him _breakfast_. She really was something else.

Then her eyes widened and she smacked herself on the forehead. "Oh, I almost forgot the fruit!" She popped off her stool and dove towards the fridge. "Eggs and bacon are all very well and good but we need to be watching your cholesterol, Dad." And thoughtful about her father's health? What a gal.

Harrison rolled his eyes, shaking his head in amusement. Barry watched him, lifting a forkful of eggs into his mouth, crumbs stuck to his chin that drove Barry crazy wanting to brush off. Then the older man caught Barry staring at him. Barry blushed and looked away. He couldn't help himself, Harrison was just so… Normal wasn't the right word. Harrison Wells could never be normal to ordinary ol' Barry Allen. He was the stars, the moon, orbiting above the world, too great to ever fully comprehend. But he was also so… sweet, wonderful, loving, so… _him_.

Barry felt a hand on his knee and he looked back up at Harrison from under his eyelashes. The look Harrison gave him as he gave Barry's leg a small squeeze was so affectionate it made Barry's heart swell. He was so suddenly outrageously happy in that one moment he could've just about died.

* * *

Wells drove them to the Labs after breakfast. He'd wished Barry hadn't insisted on coming into work today, but there was little he could do when confronted with that angelic face and those puppy dog eyes. The morning had turned out rather delightfully, though. Seeing Barry and Jesse getting along had warmed his heart in ways he couldn't describe. He was sorry he'd never introduced her to Hartley, wondered if things might not have turned out differently if he had, if he'd included Hartley more in his life, made him a more _normal_ part of his life. But that train of thought was an unhelpful one, considering he couldn't travel back in time and change the past. What's more, he was sure Jesse and Hartley getting to know each other would've been disastrous. Hartley was far too competitive, and, if Wells knew his daughter, so was Jesse. They likely would have ended up arguing about the practical applications of String theory until he was old(er) and gray(er).

After pulling into the parking lot in front of the (his) massive building, he surprised Barry by rounding the hood of the car and opening the door for him. The boy was blushing a little as he climbed out.

"You don't have to treat me like a lady, you know," he mumbled, fidgeting unwittingly with his bow-tie.

"Oh, I know. _Trust me,_ I know," he emphasized and delighted in the way Barry's blush deepened. Still so easy to fluster, his Barry Allen. He liked the way that sounded. ' _His_ ' Barry Allen. "But chivalry isn't deterred by gender, and I made a promise to treat you right."

Barry smiled, small and shy. "That you did."

He surprised Barry for a second time by cupping his face in his palms and leaning in. Barry stiffened, eyes darting sideways trying to catch sight of anyone in his peripheral vision.

"A-are you sure? I - I mean anyone could see."

There would have been a time when the thought of being seen kissing a man, out in public, in the daylight, by just about anyone walking by, would have sent him into cold-sweats and a panic-attack. But now that he had Barry. Barry Allen. _His_ Barry Allen. It was as though the anxiety that had burned perpetually under his insouciant skin had been somehow soothed, cooled by the calming presence of Barry Allen. Somehow knowing that he had him, that he would go to work and come home at the end of the day and Barry Allen would be there, still wanting him, made all his old worries seem meaningless, like the worries of a different man. This man, this man who stood in front of a beautiful boy in a heinous bow-tie and glinting gold-framed glasses, cupping pale cheeks with a maddeningly cute blush across them - this man couldn't give two shits about who saw them.

"Let them," he said and captured Barry's lips between his own, hearing a little sound escape the boy, like a happy sigh.

"ALLEN!"

Barry jerked out of Wells' grasp, turning frantically about like a startled hare. Wells didn't like the tone in that deep voice, accusing, irate. Wells followed Barry's line of sight, towards the speaker, a large, dark skinned man in a sharp suit and matching fedora barreling towards them, his face a trembling mask of rage.

"J-Joseph?" Barry quailed, voice high-pitched and trembling. "W-what are you doing here?"

Wells laid an instinctively protective hand on the small of Barry's back, his blue eyes narrowing hawkishly as the man continued to approach them, not unlike a rampaging bull.

"So this is the guy, huh?" The man - Joseph - said, with not small amount of disgust as he eyed Wells from top to bottom, coming to a stop in front of the pair of them, only a scant few feet separating them from the seething anger that rolled off the man in hot waves. "This is the guy you broke my baby girl's heart for."

Ah. It clicked easily into place in Wells' mind. The father of the bride. How Shakespearian of him, to come and confront his son-in-law. It certainly explained the ire, but Wells didn't care for the revulsion in the man's voice and eyes. It was revulsion Wells was all too familiar with himself, revulsion that usually preceded a very unflattering array of words.

"I - Joseph - look - it's complicated -" Barry stammered, and Wells silently wished the boy would stop saying that. When was 'it's complicated' ever an adequate explanation?

Wells wondered if he shouldn't intervene somehow, maybe threaten to call the police, usher Barry inside, send the security guards after this Joseph character. But another part of Wells argued that it might be best to let Barry hander the matter on his own, that he knew this man better than Wells did, after all, and surely knew what answers this man had come here looking for. It might even help Barry gain some kind of closure over his wife, as Wells knew the young man was still wracked with guilt over the whole affair (though not unjustly - he _had_ cheated on his wife with a man; neither Barry nor Wells were going to win any prizes for morality any time soon). But Wells just couldn't shake this feeling in his gut, the hairs that had risen on the back of his neck. It was a sense of foreboding that left him uneasy and short of breath. He chalked it up to the fact that the entire situation was an extremely uncomfortable one. The livid father of the woman his lover cheated with him on, come to berate his lover in front of him. It would give just about anyone the - how did kids these days put it? - the "willies".

Joseph's lip curled, so furious he visibly trembled. "Do you remember what I told you, when you married her?"

Wells watched as the color drained out of Barry's face, blanching him past the point of "snow white" and into the realm of transparency. He quivered under Wells hand like a leaf caught in a sudden gust of wind. Wells felt tensed.

"I told you," the man continued, every word a drop of acid, burning, corroding, disintegrating everything it touched. "That if you ever hurt my baby girl, I would kill you."

"Joseph, don't -"

It all happened so fast. Wells blinked and then the gun was out. A sound like a firework exploding, the peel of sound blasting painfully through Wells' ears, deafening him, a sound like feedback whining agonizingly loud in his ear drums. Barry was blasted backwards, onto the car, slamming into it with a force hard enough to crack the passenger window's glass, bouncing off the metal frame and falling fast and heavy like a sack of bricks to the ground, unmoving.

Wells couldn't hear a thing save the ringing in his ears. Couldn't see anything except for Barry's still, prone body, face down in a growing pool of dark, crimson blood that soaked the asphalt. For one second that stretched to eternity, Wells couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't understand what was happening. Then the second passed.

"BARRY!" Wells hollered, his voice muted in his ringing ears. He should have gone to him, dropped to his knees beside him, but his gut instinct had taken over, entirely switching off the rational scientist that would have logically tried to assess the damage done to the gunshot victim, but had him instead rounding on the assailant, still holding the gun, his dark eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. Wells wasn't thinking anymore. His brain's higher functions were shutting down, one by one, until all that was left was an animal of pure instinct and unmitigated rage.

Wells flung himself at the man, grabbing the arm in which he still held the gun. In surprise the man squeezed the trigger and another deafening shot rang out, blowing out the glass in Wells' windshield. He tore at the man's arm, brought it down with all his strength on the roof of the car. The man screamed in pain but didn't release the weapon. Wells pounded his arm again, and again, onto the fiberglass, harder every time, adrenaline fueling him to impossible strengths, until finally he heard a sickening crack and the gun clattered to the ground. He swung the man around and slammed his back against the frame of the car, the man's ludicrous fedora flying off, and drew back his elbow, throwing his fist into the man's face with every ounce of strength he possessed. The man's head snapped back from the force of it, banging against the car door, his eyes dazed.

He punched him again. His knuckles burned, skin breaking. The pain felt right, good, like justice, reverberating up his arm, into his shoulder, turning him into a live-wire, an embodiment of fury.

He punched him again. Blood spewed forth from the man's face, from Wells' knuckles, splattered hot against Wells' skin, his clothes.

Again. He felt hard bone give way under his fist with a stomach churning crunch. He couldn't see anymore, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe. There was no Harrison Wells. There was only white-hot vengeance. And vengeance could not be stopped.

Again. His fist collided but he couldn't feel it anymore, his hand gone numb up to the wrist. He had no idea how long he'd been punching, pounding, destroying the man who had destroyed what he loved. It wasn't enough. He wasn't done. He had to keep going. There was no Harrison Wells.

Again-

He was being pulled, hands under his armpits, trying to drag him away from the mess that had formerly been a man now slumped against his ruined car. Wells' vision began to clear, his hearing to return. His vision filled with red, his nostrils with the smell of iron, his mouth with a taste of pennies that made him want to gag. His hand was throbbing to the point where it felt as though it might explode.

"-The police!" Someone was shouting.

"They're already on their way!" Someone else shouted back.

Wells struggled out of the grasp he was being held in. He was momentarily disoriented by the red that still remained in front of his eyes but realized with a wave of nausea that his glasses were stained with blood. He cast them aside with hands that trembled so violently he was barely able to get them off his face. The world around him began to make sense again, shapes and colors reforming into tangible objects. The car. The man. Two STAR Labs security guards, one of them looking at Wells as though he were a wild animal, the other-

"Barry-" Wells' voice was distant, unfamiliar, belonging to another person, another place. He dove forward, shoving aside the guard that had been kneeling on the asphalt. "Someone call an ambulance!" He shouted, the unrealness of his voice giving him a dizzying sense of vertigo.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He couldn't believe he was looking at Barry - _his_ Barry - lying so perfectly still, his glasses skewed and one lens cracked where his cheek lay on the ground in a pool of his own blood. No. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be happening. Not now. Not when they'd only just - Not when they were so _happy_ \- No. Barry, please - No no no no no NO NO NO _NO -_

He rolled Barry over, pulled him into his lap, cradling his head, his lovely dark hair caked with blood. He looked so peaceful. Like he was only sleeping. Like he did when Wells awoke first thing that morning and saw him, hair in his face, angelic against Wells' dark sheets. Or he would have looked peaceful, if not for the blood - so much blood, how could one person have this much blood inside them? - everywhere, on his clothes, on his face, in his mouth, in his hair. It was everywhere. Wells pawed him futilely, looking for the source, trying to stop it, trying to do anything. All his medical knowledge and none of it helped, none of it was worth a Goddamn thing. He couldn't even take his pulse, his hands were shaking so much - he couldn't even _feel_ his hands, just a sickening, tingling numbness.

"Someone call a FUCKING AMBULANCE!" He shouted again, at anyone, at everyone, just for something to do, so he didn't have to believe that he was just sitting here, holding his lover while he died.

He carded his fingers through blood soaked, chestnut hair, stroked blood stained cheeks, his fingers leaving tracks across his terrifyingly pale skin, like red paint on white paper. He was so cold.

"No, Barry -" Wells gasped, his voice sticking like tar in his throat, threatening to choke him, hot tears springing unbidden to his eyes, burning his eyelids. Harrison Wells hadn't cried in nearly two years, when shame and regret had caused him to break down and sob. But this time he didn't feel shame. This time Harrison Wells felt fear like he had never felt in his entire life. He couldn't lose him. He couldn't. He couldn't lose his Barry Allen. The sunshine warmth of his smile, the glitter of his grey-green eyes, the golden bell of his laugh that made Wells' chest tight with love. He couldn't lose this boy. Not his beautiful boy. Not his Barry Allen. "Barry, please - Don't leave me - Barry - please - please… please…"

The sound of sirens could be heard approaching from the distance.

Harrison Wells held Barry Allen and wept.

* * *

 **A/N:** I want to start by saying that this was a very trying week and I had to wonder if I was actually going to continue this story in light of everything that's happened. But I realized that those who would oppress us would win if I let my fear stop me from creating stories about love.

I hope that wherever you are you are safe and remain full of hope that the freedoms we have fought so hard for will not be taken away from us. I know that personally I will continue to fight, to join protests, to campaign for petitions, and I will not allow my voice to be silenced. I will not let hatred win.

I'm sorry to get political but this has been a very difficult time in America. Please continue to enjoy this story and I hope that for a little while it can help those who have been deeply affected by all of this forget about the bleak realities of the world and allow you to disconnect.

With all my love,

-Freak


	7. I Don't Want To Set the World On Fire

**Part 7: I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire**

Dr. Harrison Wells was sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair in a hallway of Central City General Hospital outside of room 317 in which currently resided a one Dr. Barry Allen, twenty-five, six foot one and a half, advanced theoretical particle physicist, employee of STAR Labs, and Harrison Wells'... his… well, he had never had a boyfriend before, and it hardly seemed appropriate for a man of fifty-one years to claim himself a "first boyfriend". Barry Allen was simply his… _his_. Barry Allen was his.

Barry Allen's blood had long since dried on Wells' clothing, turning a sickening brown color on his white button-down. Some of it was still on Wells' skin, under his collar, under his cuffs, crusting off in rust colored flakes, and some of it wasn't Barry Allen's blood at all.

Wells shifted away the bag of ice he had resting on his bandaged, splinted hand, turning the injured appendage, inspecting his still shaking fingers. The doctor had told him he could expect the trembling for some time still, that it wasn't uncommon for a metacarpal fracture, but Wells has hardly needed the doctor to inform him of this - he _had_ completed pre-med after all. And thanks to his eidetic memory he likely could have described his hand's condition in far more vivid detail than the haggard ER doctor who had treated him. No, Wells had hardly listened to the doctor. He'd hardly listened to the EMT who had tried to treat him at the scene. He'd hardly listened to anything anyone had said to him since the moment Barry had been shot. Since that moment on Barry had been the only thing that had mattered. One of the many things he hadn't listened to was the EMT's diagnosis that he was in shock. Shock? He'd have to have suffered a massive brain injury or be a sociopath (something he had been accused of on more than one occasion) to not have been in shock. They'd wrapped a hideous orange blanket around his shoulders, as if that would somehow take away the fact he'd seen Barry Allen - _his_ Barry Allen - shot nearly to death right in front of him, had held him as he'd bled out in his arms without being able to a damn thing about it. He would have laughed if he hadn't been so close to throwing up.

"DAD!"

Jesse's panicked voice cut through the numb, disconnected fragments of his mind. He looked up to see her running down the whitewashed hall, past the security guards posted at the end allowing only medical professionals through - part of the perks of being a billionaire was the ability to section off an entire wing of a hospital for one patient. He stood just in time to greet her, arms outstretched, expecting her to launch herself at him in a rib-strangling hug, but she stopped short, small hands flying to her mouth, blue eyes wide in shock as she took in his appearance.

"Oh my God, Dad - are you -"

"I'm fine, sweetheart, it's not -" He cast a glance down at himself, couldn't bare to look at the sight for longer than a heartbeat, and looked back at his daughter. "Mine."

She still hesitated to embrace him, settling instead on reaching out and taking his uninjured hand in hers, squeezing. Her big eyes were glistening with tears on the precipice of falling. "I'm so sorry - I came as soon as they'd let me - I didn't hear until… And then, Dad, they wouldn't let me in, they said-"

"I know, I'm sorry, I should have told them -" He sighed, took his hand away from his daughter's to scrub across his face, tired, so terribly tired. "Nevermind. You're here now. That's what matters."

"I heard…" She peeked past him, at the closed door, the shuttered blinds over the window. "Is he…?"

"He's alive." It felt good to say outloud. More real. It grounded him, cleared his head. He still felt untethered, adrift in a reality that didn't seem his own, that couldn't possibly be true. He felt wrung out, mentally, physically, like there was nothing left inside him but the tenuous instinct that told him he had to be there, had to stay awake, for Barry. For Barry. He clung to it, the only thought he could make sense of that didn't make him want to open the window at the end of the hall and jump out. But having Jesse here helped. She was familiar, real. Her touch kindled his cold, dead nerves, reminded him of home, of his _real_ life, not this bizarre alternate universe where he had to stand outside of his lover's hospital room and assure his daughter he was alive.

The relief flooded her face instantly, her hand coming to rest on her chest, as though calming palpitations. "Oh thank God. When I heard, I thought…" She shook her head, wavy auburn locks bobbing with the movement, hair so much like her mother's.

A wave of old sorrow crashed suddenly over Wells, remembering the last time he was in a hospital, comforting his daughter. The car crash. Tess. Jesse had been so young still, a little girl who needed her mother, but the cruel world had taken that from her. _How unfair_ , Wells had thought at the time, still did on occasion, when he was in one of his darker moods. _To punish an innocent child by taking her mother from her_. And Wells had thought something frighteningly similar when he had sat beside Barry Allen in the ambulance, holding his ice cold hands in his own throbbing ones. _Have I really been so horrible that I deserve him to be taken from me?_

Jesse looked up at her father, expectant, confused. "What _happened_?"

"He was shot. Once, in the upper abdomen." Wells' voice was flat, factual. A list of clinical details, something that happened to a stranger, not his Barry. "The bullet missed the lungs, lodging behind them, but internal bleeding caused a hemothorax."

Jesse's impossibly large eyes widened further. "His lung _collapsed_?"

 _Always quick, my little Jesse Quick_ , Wells thought. "Yes - he… lost a great deal of blood but - luckily his blood type is fairly common, and the ambulance was able to start a transfusion on the ride over. He's being monitored closely now but the doctors say he'll likely make a full recovery. They said it was a miracle the ambulance arrived so quickly, or he might not have -" His voice broke off suddenly, throat constricting around the words, preventing them from being formed.

Jesse's face melted easily from horror to sympathy and she laid her hand comfortingly on his arm. "He's going to be okay." Wells wished he could believe that. He did, in the logical, scientific part of his mind, the one that rattled off Barry's diagnosis as easily as he would have a formula for the particle accelerator prototype. But the part of Wells' mind that kept replaying Barry's body colliding limply with the car frame, falling lifelessly to the pavement, blood flowing out of him as easily as water through a punctured paper cup, the same scene, over and over again in his mind, like some kind of perverse torture - that part of his mind still refused to believe Barry was alive, that he was going to continue to be alive, that he was going to open his eyes and they'd be full of life, that he'd smile up at Wells and it'd be _his_ Barry Allen - everything he had seen that day had made this notion impossible to comprehend.

When Wells didn't say anything, Jesse repeated herself, voice firmer. "He's going to be okay, Dad."

Wells nodded jerkily, willing back the tears that threatened to surface. He'd cried enough for one lifetime, and he'd be damned if he was going to let his little girl see him cry. Those words brought back the sickening memory of West, telling Barry he'd once promised him that if he ever hurt his baby girl he would kill him. Wells could still hear Barry's broken voice cry out ' _Joseph, don't-'_ and the deafening peal of the gunshot. He could still feel that gunshot reverberating in his ribcage with every shallow breath he took.

"Do they know who…" Jesse started, struggling to find a delicate phrasing.

Wells didn't need to hear the rest of the sentence. He knew what she she was asking. "Yes. Joseph West. Barry's father-in-law."

Her thin eyebrows drew together, perplexed. "His father-in-law?"

He hesitated, knowing how this would sound, especially to Jesse, who had believed him without morals when she thought he was only seducing men half his age. But he couldn't lie to Jesse. Never had been able to. Certainly not today, of all days, when he barely had the strength to stand. All he could hope was that her judgement would be swift. "His… _wife_ 's… father."

"Oh my God." Her hand slipped from his arm. He couldn't read the emotions flitting across her face, they were too varied, passed too quickly. Wells exhaled unevenly, forcing himself not to hold his breath. Her voice was as difficult to read as her face when she said "I… didn't know…"

"Because I didn't tell you."

"Did you -" She cleared her throat, folding her thin arms across her chest. "Did you know he was married when you…"

"Yes."

She absorbed this information, nodding absently, eyes on the unnaturally white walls. She was silent for longer than Wells thought possible. Had his body not been incapable of producing any more adrenaline or emotion, his heart rate would have increased, his palms would have sweated. As it was he could only feel more exhausted, fatigue settling deep into his bones. It wasn't her business what decisions he made - romantically or otherwise - that didn't concern her, but her opinion mattered to him. He still wanted to be the father whose daughter looked up to as a hero. He may have ruined that possibility years ago, but he still clung to that hope, though with an ever more tenuous grasp.

At long last she said, "Do you love him?"

This he was able to answer without hesitation. "Yes."

She met his eye then and there was no judgement behind her crystalline eyes, only concern. "Does he make you happy?"

"More than I ever thought I could be." The earnestness behind his words surprised even him.

This seemed to be all the answer Jesse was looking for. The tension evaporated from her thin shoulders, arms falling away from their protective shield over her chest. She smiled up at him, faintly but genuinely. "Then that's all that matters."

Wells felt a weight lift from his shoulders he hadn't known had been there. He felt his heart strain with too many emotions. He couldn't put into words what Jesse's support meant to him. Last night when he'd brought Barry home, now when he needed her most - she was there for him, she accepted him, despite everything she had yelled so viciously at him no more than a week ago. He was so proud of her and so grateful for her all at once. All he could do was reach out and pull Jesse into his arms, onto his bloodstained shirt, and hold her right, breathing in the jasmine scent of her hair and feeling the taffeta of her dress crinkle under his fingers. She squeezed him back, rib-crushingly hard, and it was the most comforting vise he'd ever been trapped in.

Behind him he heard the door opening. He and Jesse separated as the doctor walked out, the nurse inside opening the blinds just enough to get a peek at Barry, so fragile looking in the large bed, like a child's porcelain doll, his beautiful face ashen under the plastic tubes connected to his nose, pale enough to blend into the bleached white hospital bedsheets, a bandage wrapped around his head where he hit it upon impacting the ground making his dark hair stick out at almost comical angles. Wells had thought he didn't have anything left inside him to feel, but he _ached_ when he saw him. He ached everywhere.

The doctor - Dr. Poornima Kaul - closed the door carefully after the nurse exited behind her and turned to face Wells, clipboard in hand. She looked as most doctors did when a patient was in critical care: somber but with an edge of comforting authorianism. "He's resting now," she told him without preamble in her distinguished accent. "I've already gone over all the details with you, Dr. Wells, there haven't been any new developments. His EKG and MRI show there are no remaining bullet fragments and the damage already done is, thankfully, not extensive. After a few days or so of oxygen therapy from the tube we've inserted into the pleural lining of the chest cavity it should be safe to remove him from assisted breathing and allow his lung to strengthen under its own capacity. I would like to keep him here for at least a week of observation after we take him off assisted breathing. He's on very strong pain medication at the moment so you shouldn't expect him to wake up, or be very alert, for several hours. I will be coming back to check in on him every few hours, but after five o'clock Dr. Gordon Campbell will be taking over Mr. Allen's care."

Wells had been nodding, listening. He exhaled, glad his memory was reliable enough to retain the copious amounts of information despite his mental and physical exhaustion. "Thank you, Dr. Kaul. For everything. He... " He shook his head, unable to verbally express the plethora of emotions that surged up inside him. He settled simply on, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, Dr. Wells." She allowed herself a tight little smile. "He is a very lucky young man."

"That's what his surgeon said."

"Not only that." Wells raised an eyebrow at her and her dark eyes seemed to sparkle for a moment, but it might have been a trick of the light. "He is lucky to have you as a friend."

Wells couldn't say anything to that. Instead, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded his head once.

"If you have any questions, you have my number, and you can always reach out to one of the nurses on staff. Good day, Dr. Wells." With a polite tilt of her head she walked off, sparing a warm look for Jesse as she passed her.

Wells caught Jesse's eye and she smiled reassuringly at him. It helped, speaking with Dr. Kaul, just as speaking with Jesse had. It was real. Barry was going to be okay. He felt himself already able to breathe easier. He'd heard it before, he'd heard several times even, but it was only now starting to sink in. Barry was going to be okay. Wells closed his eyes, feeling the warmth in them that threatened to break free. His Barry. Barry Allen. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen. He was so relieved all at once that the strength seemed to drain from him and he slumped back against the wall, unable to support his own weight any longer.

"Dad!" Jesse cried out, rushing to his side, rubbing his arm for lack of anything else to do. "Are you okay?"

He opened his eyes, vision swimming a little as he took in her pretty, worried face. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the wave of exhaustion that had hit him. He smiled wanly at her. "I'm fine, sweetie. Just tired."

"Of course you are, Dad," she reprimanded. "After everything you've been through today? You should be resting!"

"I'm _fine_ , Jess, I just need to sit down for-"

Wells was cut off by a stern, barely controlled voice carrying down the hall.

"- I _demand_ to be let through. I am Detective West-Allen of the CCPD and if you do not let me through this _instant_ I will report you to your supervisor -"

"Gary," Wells called out to the guard that was currently blocking the detective's path. The young man looked back at him quizzically. "It's fine, let her through."

The man had barely budged when Iris was already shoving past him, half running down the length of the hall towards room 317, pushing her detective's badge back into her coat pocket. She barely spared Wells and Jesse a glance as she came to a halt before the window, manicured hands immediately flying to her mouth.

For several moments she said nothing. Just stood there, still as a macabre statue, tears silently rolling down her cheeks into her cupped hands. Jesse looked from her to Wells and back again, expression curious. But she was a smart girl. Wells was certain she'd put the pieces together. She was likely just wondering what, if anything, he was going to say to the woman. And to be honest, he had absolutely no idea. What _does_ one say to the wife of the man you stole from her? Somehow, Wells thought, ' _I'm sorry it turns out your husband prefers the male physique over your feminine form, beautiful though it may be, would you care for this lollipop the EMT gave me?_ ' didn't seem quite sufficient.

At last Iris sniffled loudly, pulling her hands away to dig inside her coat pockets, coming back with a tissue to delicately dab at her eyes with. "I didn't believe them when they told me," she said, more to herself than for their benefit, her eyes never leaving her husband, a ghost in a hospital gown. "That my _Dad_ … I knew he didn't like Barry but I never thought… I never thought he was capable of something like _this_. It's my-" Her melodic voice cracked, fresh tears breaking free, shaking hand coming back to her mouth, as though horrified at her own voice. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't told my father about Barry, about what he did, about why he - then he'd have never - Barry wouldn't be -" She couldn't continue. She turned away from the window, from Wells and Jesse, nothing but her trembling back to them as she wept silently.

Wells wasn't sure how he felt about this woman, and he was far too drained to try to self-analyze. All he could distinguish was a vague sense of pity. Pity for the fact that she had fallen in love with a man who may have never truly loved her, or didn't love her the same way she did him. Pity for having to discover that her husband was having an affair - an unpleasant experience for anyone, regardless of whom the affair was with and whether or not the two spouses were even in love, the betrayal alone is a crippling blow. And certainly pity for the fact that her own father would inflict such egregious harm on her own husband, the pain he'd caused her notwithstanding. But despite all this, despite the fact that Wells had only ever seen Iris on three occasions, during two of which she was a sobbing mess (the other, the first time he'd laid eyes on her, had been a holiday party at STAR Labs when Wells remembered thinking, with no small amount of spite, that she was extraordinarily beautiful) - Iris still seemed to command an air of self-possession, an effortless confidence that suggested to those in her presence that she was in control, that she was dauntless. It was in the way she carried herself when she entered a room, the way she held her chin up when she spoke to you. Wells envied her that, at the same time as he understood what attracted Barry to her, a man who craved a firm, dominating hand and an iron will. This was why Wells knew that despite her current circumstances, despite these tragedies in her life, she had no need for his pity. He knew as surely as he knew that he would not be leaving Barry's side, he knew Iris West-soon-to-be-formerly-Allen was going to be just fine.

Iris composed herself, pulled another tissue from her pocket, blew her nose in a very ladylike fashion and turned to face them once more, expression collected even if her nose was red and eyes a bit damp. She looked at them for the first time, truly looked at them, taking in Wells' appearance, Jesse's presence. Wells couldn't discern any traces of hatred from her, though she had every right to detest him for what he'd done. Instead she said, in a clear, sturdy voice. "Dr. Wells, I wanted to thank you."

Wells was momentarily stunned. Of all the scenarios he had anticipated when encountering the wife of Barry Allen, this one had never occurred to him. His voice came out as a surprised gasp, "Thank me?"

"Yes for… taking care of," she cleared her throat daintily. "Barry. For being there for him when… when he was hurt. And I'd like to ask you for a favor."

"Of course." His curiosity needled him. He couldn't fathom what Iris West would ask of him.

"When Barry wakes up tell him…" She looked at the ceiling, as though asking a higher power for strength to keep her from breaking down again. When she continued there was more waver in her voice than there had been. "Tell him that I meant what I said last night. I… really do want him to be happy. I want _both_ of you," she amended. "To be happy. Together. That's all I ever wanted for him." Her hands fidgeted absently with the wad of tissues in her small hands.

"I'll tell him," he agreed quietly. It was a lovely sentiment, whether she truly meant it or not, and an easy enough request to honor. He didn't feel she needed consoling, but he felt it was a small enough favor to fulfill for someone whom he had wronged so deeply.

"And…" She continued suddenly, looking up from her hands. "I want you to take care of him - to keep taking care of him. Can you promise me that, Dr. Wells?"

Wells looked at her levelly when he replied, without a hint of doubt in his voice, "Nothing could stop me from taking care of Barry Allen."

Her eyes welled up once more, and he wondered which part of his sentiment had triggered her emotion, if it was warmth at the thought that Barry would be well taken care of, sorrow at losing him, or something else entirely - Wells had no way of knowing. All he could do was make his promise, one he silently vowed to keep even if it cost him his life - even if it cost him Barry's love. Barry Allen's wellbeing came before everything now, even Wells' own happiness.

She didn't thank him, and Wells didn't blame her. Thanking your husband's lover for promising to love him was never covered under any etiquette lesson Wells had ever heard of. Instead she said, "I'm going to go. I don't think I'm the person Barry'll want to see when he wakes up. And I have to visit my Dad - he's being held downstairs but, you already knew that. Of course you did. You have the entire hospital on lockdown." She even offered him a wry smile, something Wells gave her tremendous credit for. "He may be my father but he's a suspect in an attempted murder investigation. I'm still a CCPD detective, after all."

She gave Jesse a wane smile, a nod in Wells' direction, and left the way she had come, her sensible heels clicking away on the tile floors. Wells wondered about her decision not to introduce herself to Jesse - then again, Wells had made no move to introduce Jesse to her. Another awkward social nicety that was missing from etiquette lessons: introducing your daughter to your lover's wife and the daughter of the man who shot his lover. Perhaps it was for the best of the two of them didn't become too familiar with each other.

"So," Jesse said after Iris passed the guards at the end of the hall. "That was Barry's wife, huh?"

"Mhm," Wells hummed, feeling a pounding headache beginning to surge behind his eyes. It had been one hell of a day.

"How'd a guy like him land a gal like _her_?"

If Wells was being honest, he may have wondered the same thing (certainly had on the night he'd first seen Iris), but he wasn't about to admit that to Jesse. He just massaged his temples and hummed another vague reply.

Despite Wells' obvious indications that he wished this conversation to be over, Jesse continued mercilessly. "Better yet, how'd a guy like Barry leave a gal like her for _you_?"

Wells snorted and turned a withering look on his daughter.

Jesse was the picture of feigned innocence and mock surprise. It was times like these he both appreciated and despised his daughter's paternally inherited caustic wit. "You must be _amazing_ in bed."

Wells groaned audibly. "Jesse."

"What?"

"I'm going to go lie down now. And please. Never - ever - say those words again."

Jesse laughed, loudly and brightly, and Wells felt his chest lighten - even if she was an impossible brat.

Wells had just come out of a doze (one of many fitful spells of sleep since he had collapsed in the armchair in the corner of Barry's hospital room three hours ago) when he heard a small sound. It took a beat for his fuzzy mind to make sense of what he was hearing, but when it came again, he knew it immediately.

Wells was on his feet in an instant, fatigue forgotten. He placed his uninjured hand on Barry's shoulder, gently coaxing him back down onto the hospital bed he was trying to rise from ineffectively, grunting with effort.

"Hey, hey," Wells murmured, his voice all rasp. "Don't try to get up. There you go." He smoothed down Barry's soft and once again clean hair, his hand brushing the stiff material of his head bandage.

Barry blinked up at him with bleary, glassy eyes and Wells felt his much abused chest constrict all over again. There had been a time not so long ago when he'd been sure he'd never see those eyes again. And then that dopey half-grin spread drowsily across Barry's face and Wells melted entirely.

"Heeeyyy," Barry drawled, his voice hoarse and breathy, reminding Wells of the piece of plastic that was currently inserted in his chest.

Wells forced his best droll smile onto his face. "Welcome back, Dr. Allen."

"Thank you, Dr. Wells," he continued to grin, more drugged than he was conscious. Then his eyes seemed to focus, taking in Wells, the clothes he had yet to change, the ones with Barry and West's blood still caked onto them, and his smile dimmed like the sun behind a cloud. "What happened?"

It'd be very easy to lie to him at this point, what with the assurance that he was more likely than not to forget this conversation entirely. So easy, in fact, that Wells knew it was the wrong thing to do. It didn't matter whether or not the words would stick in Barry's teflon coated morphine mind, what mattered was that Wells had made himself a promise, and being honest with Barry was part of it.

"You were shot, Barry. But you're going to be fine." He made sure to keep as much conviction in his voice as he could muster, calling up memories of the doctor's words in his mind for reassurance that he was, in fact, going to be fine, that he wouldn't somehow slip away from him again, that he wouldn't somehow lose him like he'd been so afraid he had when he'd held Barry's lifeless body in his arms. "You just need to stay in the hospital for a little while, to recover. But you're going to be just fine."

Barry seemed to relax, easily comforted in the way only someone under the influence of a copious amount of drugs could be. "That's good…" Barry drifted for a moment, green-grey eyes losing focus, taking on that eerie doll quality, his expression vacant. But as easily as he drifted away he came, like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide. "You're okay though, right?"

Wells exhaled a laugh through his nose. Of course. He'd been the one shot and Barry Allen was worried about _him_. It was just so a maddeningly… _Barry_ thing to do. "Yes, Barry, I'm fine. You really should be resting."

"'M not tired," he mumbled, even as his eyes fell shut. "I slept a loooot… Did I sleep a lot?"

It was a wonder that morphine Barry was only slightly more ridiculous than regular Barry. "Yes, you slept 'a lot'. Nine hours."

Barry's eyes fluttered back open with a flapping of long, dark lashes like lazy butterfly wings. "Nine hours?"

"Mhmm."

"You've been here the whole time?"

"Of course." Wells couldn't comprehend the alternative. Where else would he be? Home? Drinking a Cabernet Sauvignon and watching The Real Housewives of Opal City? Only a murderous pack of wild dogs could keep him from Barry Allen's side and even then those dogs would find themselves with a mighty fight on their hands - paws.

"You should go home," Barry yawned, eyes closing again. Wells noted with relief that some color had come back to the boy's cheeks, making him a more human shade against the stark white of the pillow he nuzzled his cheek into. "I'll be fine… You said so, so it's gotta be true…" He was silent long enough for Wells to think he had dozed off, but then the young man breathed, as if talking in his sleep, "... should change your clothes… take a shower… "

Wells laughed then, easy and relaxed, and it felt good, like it was chasing out the last vestiges of darkness lingering in the corners of his mind and beyond-exhausted body. He supposed Barry was right. He really _should_ take a shower.

Wells leaned over and kissed Barry's forehead, murmuring against his skin, even though he was certain the boy was fast asleep, "I'll come back. I'll always come back to you, beautiful boy."

Wells told the guards as he passed them that they were free to go, the hospital's own security would handle any disturbances, should they occur. The guards appeared oddly reluctant but agreed. Wells was finally too drained to wonder and let their hesitancy go without further thought. Some mysteries, for today at least, would have to go unsolved. He came up short, however, when he was walking through the waiting room towards the elevators and found it occupied with familiar faces.

Gideon, Dr. Henry Hewitt, Dr. Lisa Snart, mayor Snart's sister and a colleague of Barry's on the syphon project. They each stood when they saw him, faces mixes of concern and exhaustion. Wells just shook his head, flabbergasted. "What…" He couldn't help the surprised chuckle that escaped him. "Are you all doing here?"

"Well," Gideon was looking at him as one might a relative whose sanity was dubious at the best of times. "We're here for you, sir. And for Dr. Allen, of course. We all came as soon as we were able."

"Is he going to be alright?" Hewitt beseeched, wringing his hands.

"Yes." He didn't have the energy to run through the medical technicalities, though they would surely understand them and would have likely appreciated them. That could all wait. For later, for tomorrow. There was all the time in world now. Barry wasn't going anywhere, and neither was Wells. "Yes, Barry's going to be fine. He's going to make a full recovery."

"Well, that's a relief," Snart said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her fine nose. "I would have missed his incessant prattle around the laboratory."

Hewitt looked at her, aghast that she would speak of their injured colleague in such a fashion, and opened his mouth to admonish her, but Wells cut him off, not in the mood to field a childish squabble amongst his employees, "Thank you, all, for coming to show your support but really, you should go home. As I am going to do right now, in fact. And hopefully get forty-eight hours worth of sleep - if not more."

"Should I fetch the guards to escort you out the rear entrance, sir?" Gideon inquired.

"No, that's quite alright, Gideon. I'll be fine on my own going through the front. Just have someone send a car around. Mine is… well, it's going to be out of commission for a while."

Gideon seemed as strangely reticent as the guards. "Are you sure, Dr. Wells? There's… quite a few members of the media outside."

"Shit." Wells scrubbed his hands over his hair. Of course the press was going to be here. Enigmatic billionaire and mysterious scientist shot at right outside of STAR Labs, by the father of a CCPD detective no less! The stories didn't get juicier than that - it practically wrote itself. Wells weighed his options while his assistant and scientists watched him with the care one uses to watch dangerous animals. But then the answer hit him, with the force of the bullet that had torn through Barry's chest. It was all so startlingly clear to him suddenly. He could have laughed even, had he the energy.

He put a hand on Gideon's shoulder and smiled, feeling calmer than he had in weeks. "That's fine, Gideon. There's something I have to say to them."

Wells could see them, and hear them, as soon as he exited the elevator. Flashing lights, shouting voices, just beyond the glass doors of the hospital facade, kept at bay by a line of haggard police officers. Gideon laid a hand on his arm. Wells knew her well enough to understand the gesture. She was checking to make sure he was certain. He nodded once, tersely, and she nodded back, though she couldn't disguise the apprehension in her eyes. He didn't want to stop to think about this decision lest he change his mind. Better to do it now, with Barry blood still on his clothes and skin to remind him of what he almost lost, to remind him what he was about to fight for.

When he walked through the double doors all hell broke loose. The camera flashes were blinding, the roar of the reporters deafening, their questions and demands almost indistinguishable in the cacophony. Here and there he caught snatches ("Dr. Wells - were you hurt?" "Is there any validity to the rumors that you were seen kissing Dr. Allen before you were attacked?" "Did you know the man who shot at you?" "What is your relationship to Dr. Barry Allen?" "How do you know Detective West?") but they washed over Wells like waves breaking against rocks. Wells couldn't distinguish the hammering of his heart from the reverberations of their fervor in his chest, in his stomach. Officers began to coalesce around him, a protective barricade, assuming he was attempting to depart, but he waved them and their confused faces away. To the assembled crowd he lifted his hands, signaling silence. He waited until the last shout of "Dr. Wells!" died before speaking. Even then he waited a full minute longer than was strictly needed, staring into the unknowable black eyes of the cameras, into the television sets of millions of people across the country, maybe even the world. He knew that somewhere Barry Allen's parents were watching - wherever they were where they were unable to have come to visit their son in the hospital, maybe they hadn't even heard. He knew that his daughter, Jesse, was watching from their flat-screen television in their living room, sitting on the edge of her seat. He knew that somewhere Hartley Rathaway was looking up from a book written in its original Latin, eyes round with surprise, with misgivings.

Dr. Harrison Wells had known what he was going to say before he'd walked out of Central City General Hospital. He'd known what he was going to say before he'd even left Barry's bedside. He had even known what he was going to say before Barry's blood had cooled on the asphalt outside of STAR Labs. It's something he should have said years ago. It might even be too late now. But Harrison Wells had been a coward for far too long. And now, after meeting Barry Allen, after falling _in love_ with Barry Allen, he simply wasn't that man anymore.

Harrison Wells took a deep breath and began.

"As I'm sure you've all heard, earlier today I, and an employee of STAR Labs, Dr. Barry Allen, were attacked by a man named Joseph West. Dr. Allen was shot, in the chest, but he is expected to make a full recovery.

"Dr. Allen was shot because… because he is in a romantic relationship - with me. I… I have lived a lie for far too long. And I think it's time I was finally candid with myself, with you, with the people of Central City. I… am gay. And always have been. I hid this from the public for these long years for fear of rejection, for fear of losing the respect of my peers, for fear of damaging my reputation, my company's reputation, of exposing my daughter to unwanted public scrutiny. But the world is changing, people are… more enlightened. More people understand that this is not something you can choose, and it is not some perversion or sickness. My love is as real and as pure and as valid as the love of anyone else. And I will not be forced to hide who I am anymore because of the ignorance of a select few.

"There are people that I have hurt in the course of trying to maintain this secret. To those - people - I apologize. From the bottom of my heart. I never meant to hurt you. Those were the actions of a desperate man, and I am ashamed of those actions. I am _not_ ashamed of who I am. I would not change who I am even if I could. I am proud to be the man I am today, and I am proud of the people that are in my life today because of that.

"For those who will try to marginalize me, or invalidate my work because of my sexual orientation, to them I say you can try, but I have struggled in my lifetime more than any of you will ever know - I can endure any attack you launch at me. I will, however, implore you to leave my family out of those attacks. My daughter has nothing to do with this, and I would ask that you respect her privacy.

"To those of you who are out there like me, afraid, confused, alone, thinking you don't deserve to be happy, that you will never be loved, to you I say there is hope. I won't say you shouldn't be afraid, that you won't encounter hatred and ignorance in this world, you will, but you are _not alone_. And you deserve happiness. And you _will_ be loved.

"I wanted to be a physicist. I wanted to change the world through technology, innovation. I never wanted to be a champion for a cause. But I wasn't given that choice. I was born different, and the only way I could be who I truly am was to tell the entire world. I was given this platform for a reason. And I intend to use it to. Because that's the kind of man I am. Thank you, no further questions."

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's all folks!

Thanks so much to everybody who's read and reviewed and left kudos and enjoyed this story. I hope everyone liked this ending, or at least found it satisfying. It was hard for me to end this story because I loved living in this world so much. Earth-2 is one of my all time favorite settings with some of my all time favorite characters. But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It was difficult for me to tie things up for Iris. She's such an empowered character and I feel like I spent a lot of time victimizing her in this story, so it was important for me to show that while losing her husband to a homosexual affair and having her father attempt to murder her husband are terrible blows, she's still gonna be alright. She's tough as nails.

I also didn't want to end the story with your typical "happily ever after". It's going to be an uphill battle for Harry moving forward, and the stress on his and Barry's relationship is going to be heavy, not to mention the scrutiny that's going to be placed on Barry, by the media, the public, and his family. As fantastical as the setting is, I wanted to keep a certain thread of realism throughout the series and I hope I accomplished that.

I'd like to take this moment to thank everyone who's kept reading despite the real world problems happening in the United States right now. It's taken a huge toll on me and my family and large portions of my life have changed because of it. I won't be writing as much from now on as I continue the fight here in California, attending protests, working for awareness groups, and spreading petitions. I encourage all of you who have been affected or will be affected by this devastating change in our government's administration to take action and have your voices heard. I know this shouldn't be a platform for politics, it should be one for escapism and joy, but I feel it's my duty to encourage people to stand up for what they believe in anyway I'm able. And I think it kind of fits, considering how this story ended, with a grand speech about freedom of love. If Harry can fight for what he believes in, so can you :)

With all my love,

-Freak


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